


Live Rude Girls

by LovelyVillain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cam Girl, Disguise, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Porn With Plot, Voyeurism, Webcams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29419887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyVillain/pseuds/LovelyVillain
Summary: Abandoning the impromptu peepshow, Draco was now abundantly certain of three things. His chemistry partner was the most unbearable minge he'd ever been forced to endure, she couldn't possibly be the mystery girl half the school was rubbing off to, and he'd caulk his shower to thoughts of her later tonight solely out of spite.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 38
Kudos: 146





	1. Romp

"And here we have the rec hall," Blaise announced proudly, gesturing to the room as though it contained Lamborghinis with swimsuit models on the hoods. Draco examined the grand prize showcase, its frayed carpet overrun with bookshelves and desks.  
  
“… this looks like a shitty library.”  
  
“Hm, so it does.” His tour guide lowered his arms, the big reveal ruined. “I didn’t realize the school even had a library.”  
  
“What's your honour level again?”  
  
“I haven’t checked my marks since I started shagging the Assistant Dean.” Blaise started towards a dusty reading nook in the corner. “I could’ve sworn there was a churro stand right here––”  
  
“Shh!”  
  
They turned their heads at the sharp command, greeted by the librarian's narrow stare. The tightness of her bun suggested a deeply rooted sadism fetish Draco begged his mind not to ponder… so naturally, it broadcast the hi-def image of her bending bare arsed coeds over her desk and flogging them with their overdue books.  
  
He rubbed his eyes in shame, then considered what he wanted for lunch before the library doors burst wide and a stampede of pre-pubescent buffalo rushed inside, their shuffling hooves earning the whole of her ire. Draco cleared their path, in no mood to brush shoulders with a howling pack of first years barely old enough to drive.  
  
They funneled between the bookcases with whoops of delight, spotted complexions gone from sight as quickly as they’d appeared. Draco tilted his head and attempted to peer through the shelves, annoyed and curious as to what could possibly draw such enthusiasm to a fossilized cave boasting corded phones and dial-up.  
  
“Yes, I definitely remember there being a row of vending machines back here.” Blaise continued to wade through tequila-soaked daydreams as Draco drew closer to the crowd. “I ate barbeque crisps while Mandy Brocklehurst swallowed my––”  
  
“Blaise.”  
  
The man turned, surprised to find his charge standing several meters away.  
  
“What the hell are they doing?” Draco asked, watching the new arrivals gather around a computer near the back. Neon bubbles popped silently on the screensaver as they took turns sitting in the chair, striking lewd and obscene poses while cackling like hyenas on meth.  
  
“Being late to the game,” Blaise sighed, seemingly bored by the whole affair. “Everyone knows MacMillan took the original chair home with him weeks ago.”  
  
“Original?” Draco parroted, unsure what to do with his face when a pointy chinned undergrad crouched low to the seat and gave it a cursory sniff before licking it with gusto.  
  
Blaise sidled closer, equal parts disgusted and amused. “Don’t tell me I get the pleasure of introducing you to our second school mascot?”  
  
“You mean a wrinkled old hat doesn’t inspire enough school spirit on its own?”  
  
“Careful now. The _Hogwarts Wizards_ may not strike fear in the hearts of our enemies, but we have something no other University can claim.”  
  
A particularly enthusiastic teen began dry humping the chair as though his trust fund depended on it, his big finale cut short by the ominous _clup clup clup_ of orthopedic heels. The librarian flew around the corner with a murderous growl and her prey scattered like mice through the stacks, beady eyes glowing from the darkness.  
  
“And what is that?” Draco sighed, narrowly avoiding an elbow to the jaw as the scholarly crowd raced for the doors with feral laughs and straining erections.  
  
Blaise smirked, every bit the boy who’d caught his stepdad shagging their maid behind the garden and blackmailed the randy fool into financing his summer in Fiji. “A horny otter,” he stated glibly, leaving his hapless companion to shake his head at the sheer stupidity of it all, certain there was a radioactive spill-off feeding the campus water fountains.  


. . .

  
Draco rubbed the crease between his brows, questioning every life decision leading to this proud and crucial moment. “I don’t know what you’re about to show me but I’m _certain_ I don’t want to see it.”  
  
“O ye of little faith,” Blaise chided, centering his laptop on the table before their knees and opening the lid.  
  
“I’m sure bestiality is all the rage in these backwoods nuclear test sites,” Draco scowled, “but I’ve got a meeting with the Financial Aid office in twenty minutes—”  
  
“This will only take a second,” Blaise relayed merrily, typing god knows what into the search bar. “And Birmingham isn’t the backwoods, you uppity prick.”  
  
_Well, it's certainly not London_. Draco turned his hostility to the window beside them, watching students fuck about on the sun-soaked lawn, perfectly content with their second-rate existence. He wondered how long he’d be trapped in this piss-pot hovel and, more importantly, when he’d wake up from the never-ending nightmare masquerading as his life.  
  
“Fuck me, they pulled it down from here, too,” Blaise muttered, pushing Draco’s head beneath the icy surface of reality. He glanced forward in time to see an error message blink across the screen. “I swear, this school is run by fascist nuns,” his seatmate lamented.  
  
Draco returned his gaze to the window and willed his atoms to dissolve. “Otherwise known as people _not_ keen on watching otters shag.”  
  
“We could learn a thing or two from the animals.” Blaise pressed _Enter_ and his jack-o-lantern grin wilted. “Damn.” Another error message mocked him in red lettering. “It’s this bloody firewall.”  
  
“Well, I’m off,” Draco announced, rising in the same swift beat. Blaise grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him into the cushions without an upward glance.  
  
“Patience is a virtue.”  
  
“I happen to pride my lack of virtue; it was hard work getting rid of the shite.”  
  
His friend laughed shortly, fingers flying across the keys. “Trust me, she’s worth the wait.”  
  
“She?” Draco echoed, a strange tension taking hold, starting in his stomach and reaching up through his shoulder blades.  
  
“Here we go,” Blaise smiled, double clicking a new image until a media-player filled the screen, buffering on the first frame.  
  
Draco leaned closer, trying to decode the fuzzy patchwork of colors and shapes vaguely resembling a bookshelf. A familiar poster hung at its side, a snowy owl in round frame spectacles perched atop a tower of books. He glanced behind their communal seating and found the two-dimensional woodland critter staring back at him through kitsch lenses.  
  
The illicit desk was stationed between them, chair missing and a hand scrawled “Out of Order” sign taped across its working screen. He spun forward, the cord at his center pulling tighter. “Is that…?”  
  
“Just watch,” Blaise instructed, eyes gleaming as the video began to play.  
  
The picture shook while fingertips fumbled to steady the frame, an empty chair finally zooming into focus while the bookcase blurred like a watercolor landscape. And then a figure emerged from behind the camera and he saw nothing but her.  
  
She wore what could only be described as a Catholic school girl uniform, artfully styled to look holier-than-thou instead of the cling wrapped version he was used to seeing in… other homemade videos. She took a seat behind the table and was most certainly about to lead them in group prayer, but when she scooted forward the shot ended just beneath her chin and Draco surmised this probably wasn’t a Church-funded PSA about the evils of premarital sex.  
  
She gave the quiet nook another searching glance before biting her lip and summoning the holy ghost, dainty hands slipping slower than black treacle beneath the table until Draco felt his own religious epiphany take hold. Blaise chuckled low, clearly sharing in the sentiment before sprawling back to enjoy the sermon.  
  
A broken gasp crackled through the speakers as she squirmed, arse wriggling atop the narrow seat. Draco clenched his jaw and imagined her leaning over that same desk, hiking up her skirt and glancing over her shoulder with a silent dare in her eyes. She moaned again and the table shook, jostled by her knee. He cursed his limited view, prepared to sign away his entire inheritance if it meant watching those nimble fingers rake across her thighs en-route to her tight pink slit.  
  
Unable to track the movement of her hands he searched for her mouth instead, gaze darkening when she tilted it out of frame, keen on denying him anything he might use to identify her later. With her hair tied up and personal belongings stowed away, there was nothing to distinguish her except the impressive weight of her breasts and hourglass dip of her waist.  
  
_Come now, she’s bound to show her face at some point, even by accident._  
  
Rational thought turned fleeting when she arched her back and thrust her hips forward, something profound and beautiful unfolding beneath the table, safely concealed from his burning gaze. He willed his heartbeat to slow, convinced he could hear the gentle rustle of her skirt gathering high while her hands slipped beneath the elastic waistband of her underwear, carefully peeling the fabric from her sticky, swollen lips. She’d trace her hungry opening next, dragging a thick dollop of fluid over her throbbing clit until her entire sex glistened and a tacky puddle formed between her legs.  
  
Her throat bobbed hard and he felt it in his groin, picturing her thighs straining, pelvis clenching. He glanced at his palm and imagined splaying it across her stomach while he devoured her with his mouth, swallowing every shuddering gasp until her muscles spasmed and her juices spilled down his chin.  
  
Her low-throated groan delivered a swift kick back to reality and for the first time in over a year, he welcomed the return. The chair legs rattled beneath her trembling limbs, bringing to mind the delinquent jizz rags impregnating every chair on campus in desperate search of her leftovers. Blaise had said someone already claimed the real chair and Draco was certain it was sitting in some unemployed idiot’s kitchen, glued to the floor with dried cum. With any luck, the cheap varnish would catch fire and the entire fucking house would burn to the ground, its useless owner included.  
  
Flames were still dancing in his eyes when her arms pressed inward, both hands going to work on her tight little snatch while her breasts smashed together like two giant water balloons, stretching the buttons to their limit. He concentrated on her hardened nipples with the focus of a Saint, praying for the fabric to split at the seams, promising his soul to the first deity to make it happen. But his holy covenant was undermined by her ceaseless writhing, the desperate movement sending a bolt of heat straight to his cock.  
  
His stomach clenched with a hunger he couldn't ignore, worsened by the spill of heat down her neck as she struggled to contain her outburst. Each noise was strangled and coarse, too indelicate to be rehearsed. Unlike the amateur Scream Queens of his adolescent wet dreams, this girl was desperate to muffle every sound, practically gnawing her bottom lip in half to keep her mouth sealed. He wondered if masturbating inside public venues for a virtual audience always made her so bashful…  
  
Her head fell back and he took in the sight of her long, slender throat, certain he could encircle the whole damn thing with just one hand. Just one hand squeezing hard enough to blow her pupils wider than olives, to tease her with the darkness she craved, the roughness they always thought they craved.  
  
He'd use his hold to pin her flat and fuck her with hard, languid strokes, relishing her tight suction, making sure she could _feel_ it from the roof of her mouth to the soles of her feet. Only then, when she was shuddering beneath the intensity of his gaze, would he stroke her thrumming pulse and lean down to kiss her long and deep, riding it out until she shattered beneath him, scattering over the sides of the table and onto the floor.  
  
The fantasy was so vivid it was hard to accept the fact he wasn’t buried to the hilt inside her clenching heat. Her fingers did the work his cock couldn’t, plunging in and out of her tight channel while furiously rubbing her clit. She bounced in place like her seat was made of rubber, desperate to hit the places she knew existed but couldn’t… quite… _reach_ …  
  
He had to find her. He had to show her the difference a skilled hand could make. If her slender fingers made her wriggle like a worm on a hook then his calloused palms would send her above the atmosphere. He glanced at his hands again, muscled and rough from a decade's worth of competitive sports waged in the blistering cold and miserable damp. Once upon a time, he'd despised his weathered palms, so out of place in the cultivated refinement of his world. Until one fine summer evening when Daphne Greengrass had lured him outside for a midnight swim and showed him just how _useful_ those long, thick fingers could be.  
  
Yes. He’d find the library girl. He’d compliment her bravado and beauty and wit and whatever else she was seeking validation on by pulling this little stunt. Then he’d buy her dinner and drinks and jewelry and anything else that sparked her fancy during the brisk return to his flat. He’d be a well-mannered gentleman, a chivalrous prince until the door closed at their backs and a ravenous wolf emerged.  
  
He'd shred through her clothes with snapping teeth and glinting claws before she could draw a full gasp, until she was stumbling back to the sofa with his tongue in her mouth and his fingers deep inside her cunt. Her walls would inevitably tense, the invasion hard and sudden, so he'd take his time working her open, turning her body lax, tendons straining in his forearm as her thighs pulsed around his wrist. He'd test her readiness by pressing on her walls, scissoring her from the inside while his cock drooled in anticipation, a lump of granite throbbing in his briefs.  
  
She’d cry out when all four fingers slid in _deep,_ her entire body twitching like a heartbeat as he bottomed out at the entrance to her womb, the pressure and heat immense. _Too much, too deep_ –– she’d pant on a breathless loop while holding his wrist still, keeping his fingers nestled warm and safe in her melting quim. He’d coax her away from the panicked edge with deep kisses and lust-thickened assurances whispered across swollen lips –– _you can take it, just wait, give it a moment, let me show you, let me show you_ ––  
  
The video-version of his soon-to-be lover exhaled softly and his eyes flickered to the screen, trying to make sense of this strange anomaly. He’d been watching porn since the tender age of eleven and never _once_ had he lost himself so completely to the fantasy. And if he were being completely honest with himself, which hardly seemed worth the effort most days, he’d never lost himself to real-life fucking quite like this either.  
  
Even now, trying as he might to remain seated in the here and now, he felt himself being pulled off the couch and sucked through a virtual wormhole, DNA converting to binary code before getting spat out like a bitter load. He arrived inside the media-player dazed and windswept, then noticed her plugging away in the chair beside him and added horny to the very top of the list.  
  
He felt like a postman mistaken for an extra on a porn set, the out-of-body feeling exacerbated when she failed to lend any reaction to his sudden appearance. Indeed, she continued flicking her bean like it was the most vital component of the study process, solidifying her status as a first round draft pick for group projects everywhere and ensuring perfect class attendance on her team’s presentation day.  
  
The air crackled when he tried meeting her gaze in the burgeoning fantasy, disappointed to discover her face and hair were heavily pixelated, nothing existing beyond his desire for her. He knelt low and reached forward, gently touching her knee in a silent bid for permission.  
  
Her blurry head rested on the back of the chair and her legs parted slightly, granting him access to her gooey, molten core. He skimmed her inner thighs before gently tugging her hands from her greedy hole, slender fingers losing suction with a wet _pop!_ and a sticky string of fluids trailing their exit. He gathered the overflow, rubbing it between his fingertips before applying the calloused pads to her swollen clit.  
  
Crackling static poured from her mouth as she ground into his hand, calves tightening and bum lifting off the seat to rut against his touch. He glared at her skirt with pure loathing but didn't dare lift it away, certain the Wizard would kick him out of Oz as soon as he drew the curtain back…  
  
Even so, he didn't need to glance between her legs to know her rosy nub was swollen like a grape, fat and slick and pulsing beneath his thumb. He subjected it to torturous friction while sliding two fingers deep inside her channel, smirking when he found her spongy wall on the first pass. He curled his fingers like a hook and pulled, drawing her hips forward as they caught the motion helplessly.  
  
“That’s it,” he whispered roughly, leaning over her body to exhale against the hollow of her throat. “Move with me. Show me how you like it.” Her hips echoed the pumping of his hand, pelvic floor gripping him like a vice. “Deeper?” he asked, barely able to recognize his own voice. She nodded with a sharp jerk, beyond words, never mind this was all an elaborate wet dream and he had no idea what her voice even sounded like.  
  
He added a third finger and her squeal pierced right through him, obscene in the otherwise silent room. He pressed his free hand over the pixelated haze of her mouth, certain the librarian would come charging through with her sword drawn at any moment. There wasn’t much time, they needed to finish this _now._  
  
He adjusted the angle of his thrusts and increased the speed, each hard penetration making a wet _squiksh_ while her vacuum-sealed suction made a loud _thuck!_ on the withdrawal.  
  
_squiksh_ , _thuck!_  
  
_squiksh_ , _thuck!_  
  
 _squiksh_ , _thuck!_  
  
 _squiksh_ , _thuck!_  
  
 _squiksh_ , _thuck!_  
  
She growled like an animal, the muffled roar vibrating into his palm while her pussy burst like a ripe melon, wringing and releasing with brutal force as he continued fucking her with relentless enthusiasm. Sweet sap spilled around his fingers and coated the seat, scraped from her honey pot by his come-hither motion in fat, sticky globs. It dripped to the floor and gathered beneath her wriggling arse until her skirt was soaked through and the chair was given a much-needed coat of lacquer. Her breath warmed his skin in a long, satisfying exhale before her muscles went lax, thighs falling wide and arms dangling limp.  
  
His body sprang into motion without any input from his brain, not that his higher reasoning would have any objections on the matter. He lifted her soft, pliant body out of the chair and laid it face-down across the desk, strong hands dragging her sopping underwear past her knees and around her ankles before caressing the backs of her calves and shapely thighs on the journey up.  
  
It was around this time he became vaguely aware of movement in his peripheral. Students emerged from behind bookcases and turned in their seats, watching, waiting, their silent audience exciting him even more. He decided to give them a show to remember, seizing the twin globes of her heart-shaped arse and pulling them apart, intent on displaying her swollen, glistening folds to the eager crowd. But when he peered down for his own enjoyment, he saw only a valley of pixels spread beneath him.  
  
He smacked her perfect bum with a snarling growl, watching her flesh ripple and redden before unbuckling his pants like a man possessed. He wouldn’t get the satisfaction of watching her pretty pink hole stretch around his fat girth… But he’d feel it alright. Every last centimeter fed into her nice and fucking slow until he bottomed out against the tight mouth of her cervix, a milky glob of precum stretching between their holes as he made to withdraw––  
  
He shook his head, too many fantasies layering on top of each other, overwhelming his caveman brain. He couldn’t distinguish reality from fiction, couldn’t remember where he was standing or who the beautiful stranger writhing beneath him was… all he knew for absolute certain was he needed to fuck her right the fuck now or he was going to fucking _die_.  
  
He tugged down the front of his briefs and she reached across the desk, gripping the opposite end as he pinned the small of her back and scooped a fat dollop of fluid from her soft pink taco shell. The motion caused her to twitch hard, nerve-endings sparking like exposed wires.  
  
He took his rigid length in hand and smeared her mating scent from glans to root, balls drawing heavy and tight as he waxed his pole to a high-shine finish, stopping only when he could see his wild-eyed gaze in the mushroom cap. Heat poured from her slit in a steam cloud when he aligned his pulsing head to the blur of her sex, feeling around for her entrance…  
  
C _lup clup clup clup_ echoed mere nanoseconds before the librarian appeared, her scandalized gasp buried by his guttural shout as he slid forward and breached the vibrating gates of heaven at long la––  
  
“Draco?”  
  
He jolted, startled as a killer caught at the crime scene, casting a searching glance around the room. His audience had dispersed, everyone preoccupied with their studies and post-lunch naps. His cock throbbed at the memory of their stares.  
  
Blaise grinned knowingly, eyeing the flush on his neck. “You still with me?”  
  
A garbled sigh drew their attention to the screen. She was slumped back in the chair, riding a wave of post-orgasmic bliss with her face still frustratingly out of frame. Draco scrubbed a hand over his mouth, wondering what the fuck just happened.  
  
“This is my favorite part,” Blaise muttered, arousal tensing the lines of his body. Draco sat straighter, overcome with the inexplicable urge to slam the computer shut. He shook his head at the stupidity. Countless people had watched this video before him, students and teachers whisking batter to her broken sounds and wanton movements alike. It was ridiculous to feel any sort of claim over the content or its maker, regardless of how many times he’d imagined making her come in the last five minutes.  
  
Still… he felt a pang of jealousy when Blaise squirmed with anticipation, watching her slowly unbutton the top of her blouse before parting the fabric. The top of her cleavage came into view, a white lace bra allowing the squishy globes to defy gravity. She wriggled her glistening fingers in front of the camera like a magician showing her empty hand before tracing them across her bare décolletage, streaks of fluid marking their path. Draco leaned closer to inspect the hint of a birthmark on her left breast, the faint discoloration peeking out from its supportive cup.  
  
She was putting on a show for the audience, that much was obvious, but he could also sense the purr trapped inside her throat, contentment weighing her limbs. This was how she liked it, slow and tender after a satisfying romp. His eyes darkened with the fantasy of tracing her bare spine, following its smooth path to the dip of her back and over the swell of her arse, murmuring random words of affection until she curled into his heat like a cat basking in the sunlight.  
  
A background clatter sounded in the video, alerting her to catastrophe. She leaned forward and refastened her buttons with haste, fingers damp and clumsy in the aftermath of their Olympic sprint to the finish line. The time status-bar was nearing the end and he felt the finality of it in his bones, hands clenching between his knees to keep himself from reaching through the screen and grabbing her.  
  
She stood swiftly, shirt closed and skirt smoothed, and accidentally bumped the desk with her hip. The camera fell on its back. She leaned down to retrieve it and his heart skipped painfully, her face centered in the viewfinder.  
  
A cartoon mask filled the frame, blocking the top half of her identity with a big black nose and whiskered muzzle. Her hair was tied back and mostly out of shot, only the dark shadow of her hairline visible before she returned the camera to its original position and switched it off.  
  
He stared hard at the screen, refusing to blink or breathe until the video timed out and a sex hotline ad began to play. “Who is she?” he asked, tone thick with gravel.  
  
Blaise leaned forward to exit the page. “That, my friend, is Otter Girl.”  
  
“What’s her real name?” Draco demanded, unwilling to play whatever hide-and-seek bullshite the younger classmen settled for. “Is she a student here? What year is she in?”  
  
His friend chuckled low. "Well, no one knows for certain… but it's safe to say yes, she's enrolled. There are quite a few videos of her playing the harp on campus––"  
  
“Show me.”  
  
Blaise peered sideways, brow arched in amusement. “I thought you had a very important meeting to run to.”  
  
“What is this? A stunt? Some feminist political statement? Does the faculty know?”  
  
“Thanks to her library escapades, they certainly do now.” Blaise shrugged, exhibiting none of the urgency Draco felt boiling through his veins. “There was a line out the door for her computer and the chairs kept disappearing. Someone finally sent a link to the Dean and the security was upgraded.” He tipped his chin at the ceiling and Draco followed his gaze.  
  
A plain black camera was mounted in the corner, no blinking light or whirring parts to suggest it was anything but a cheap decoy. Still, it would be a powerful deterrent for anyone looking to light a spliff behind the fax machine or polish their banister in the periodicals section.  
  
“She went quiet for a few weeks thanks to Big Brother. Then this popped up.” Blaise hit _Enter_ and a new site loaded, so oversaturated with colors and flashing banners it took Draco's washed-out vision several moments to find the name at the top.  
  
 _Cam Clubhouse_ pulsed like a neon sign, followed by a spinning carousel of profile pictures with star rankings attached. He felt his chest distend with emotions he couldn’t begin to catalogue. “Porn?”  
  
“Not quite,” Blaise grinned. “It’s called camming.”  
  
The word brought to mind a barrage of ads Draco had been subjected to on the free sites he sometimes frequented. “There’s a difference?”  
  
"Absolutely," Blaise insisted, sounding like he had personal stock in the matter. "Porn is detached, one size fits all. You're hunting for versions of your fantasy and watching strangers act it out. Even the best amateur sites feel cold and voyeuristic compared to this. Camming is personal, every experience is tailored exactly how you want. And it's all in real-time. I've never come so hard in my life."  
  
Draco peered sideways. “You’re a member?”  
  
“On a few sites,” Blaise confirmed plainly. “There’s a handful of girls I like to check in on. A couple blokes, too.”  
  
Draco returned his gaze forward, watching him scroll down the page. “So, it’s like phone sex… but with video.”  
  
Blaise laughed again, navigating to the category section. “It’s whatever you want it to be. You ask for something, they tell you if they’re willing to do it, then you tip and they perform.” He clicked on the _Coeds_ tag. “I’m making it sound way more transactional than it is. The chatroom is like a family. You’re all talking to someone you know, someone you like. It’s sort of…” He sighed. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’ll have to check it out sometime, see for yourself.”  
  
Draco shook his head as sultry, suggestive faces of every gender and ethnicity rotated through the feed, a red or green dot appearing next to each name. “I don’t think so. You know I don’t share. Besides, isn’t this shite expensive?”  
  
"It can be," Blaise conceded. "But quality costs money."  
  
He clicked on a thumbnail image and the profile enlarged, showcasing a familiar minx seated before a bookshelf. She wore the same makeshift uniform with a few added details. A grey cardigan layered her blouse, both parted to her navel to showcase the maroon tie hanging between her breasts. Open textbooks were scattered at her knees and a feather quill was poised in her hand, a cheap wig and caricature half-mask completing the disguise. The only genuine thing about the photo was her heavy-lidded gaze staring back at them through the cutouts.  
  
Draco mapped her stockinged legs before eyeing the title above her image, gold cursive stating the obvious.  
  
 _Otter Girl_  
  
He cocked his head –– _why a fucking otter?––_ then realized there were far more pressing issues that needed attending. “She streamed that live from the library?”  
  
“Her stuff was pre-recorded back then. Seems campus security might have done us all a favor because now we have this.” Blaise gestured to the screen and Draco took a slow breath.  
  
“Do you chat with her?”  
  
It appeared his carefully measured tone wasn’t fooling anyone. “Does it matter?” Blaise asked, scrolling through her feed with a secretive grin.  
  
“Do you?” Draco repeated, flames rising high when the annoying bastard chortled lowly.  
  
“She’s not my type.” Draco felt his tension ebb. “But from what I’ve heard, quite a few students talk to her regularly.” It returned with a vengeance, heightened by Blaise’s cheeky smirk as he closed the laptop with a snap. “Well, that officially concludes our campus tour.”  
  
Draco scowled, watching him stand from the couch. “You only showed me the library. By _mistake_ , I might add."  
  
“Where else does a studious lad like yourself need to see? Besides, you’re late for your meeting.”  
  
Draco checked his Vacheron Constantin. “Shite,” he hissed, reaching for his bag.  
  
“Who the hell uses a watch anymore? You might as well lug around a typewriter while you’re at it.”  
  
Draco ignored the quip, more preoccupied with hiding the half-pitched tent in his pants.  
  
“Fucking hell!” Blaise shouted, earning startled gazes from every corner as he yanked Draco forward by his wrist, examining the timepiece up close. “Is that… holy fucking cocksucker, it is!”  
  
Draco jerked his arm back. “Keep your sodding voice d––”  
  
“You wear that thing on campus? People have killed for less.”  
  
“Then they’ll have to queue up behind the people who want me dead for more.”  
  
Draco lifted his bag and proceeded for the exit while a nearby group of coeds watched from beneath their lashes, sorority insignias on their shirts and pink highlighters in their hands. They glanced between his face and his crotch before erupting into hysterical giggles, leaving him to rub his eyes and groan.  
  
“Have fun with that,” Blaise bid in farewell, outpacing him for the door. “Oh, and Draco?” He glanced back with his signature grin in place. “I told you she was worth the wait.”  
  
Draco was inclined to agree but offered only his middle finger in response, causing his former schoolmate to laugh heartily before disappearing around the corner. Alone at last, Draco was free to ponder his profoundly enlightening campus tour in peace and solitude.  
  
It would seem Hogwarts University deserved slightly more respect than he’d originally bestowed. Considering he’d bestowed it none, it certainly wouldn't be a great expenditure on his part. Still, he was sorely inclined to deem the library a historical landmark; he owed a great deal of gratitude to its hallowed tables and chairs. 

But most importantly, he’d finally been given something to occupy his midnight hauntings beyond the relentless guilt and shame creeping under his door like grasping hands in the night. And to think, it was all courtesy of an elusive mascot he’d yet to officially meet…  
  
He strode for the doors and pushed them wide, taking the warm summer air deep into his lungs. He was filled to the brim with school spirit and felt it only right to return the favor. Off the top of his head, he could think of nearly three dozen ways to thank her. Possibly forty, depending on her flexibility. Nevertheless, they all required the same first step…  
  
Catching an otter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **❤︎ Happy Valentine's Day ❤︎**   
> 


	2. Chemistry

A week into his transfer and Draco was no closer to catching anything but copious amounts of student debt.  
  
Frustrating as it was, he knew things could have been much worse. At least his tuition and maintenance loans were capped, unlike the University in New York he'd originally had his eye on. There was no way he could afford a US school now, and being forced to withdraw and uproot his whole world across an ocean would have been just as soul-crushing as the trial.  
  
Still, it stung like a wasp to borrow money from the government, no better than Oliver Twist with his cap out. Knowing only high-end luxury his entire life, this last year was akin to dropping acid before entering a carnival funhouse. He was trapped inside the Hall of Mirrors, staring at mangled reflections of himself and trying to remember what his true face even looked like. Hope of escape was dwindling faster than his bank account, and he had no sodding clue how to staunch the outpour.  
  
But right now, all that mattered was finding Classroom P in Slytherin Hall. He’d been hunting after the elusive building for well over an hour before learning it wasn’t a building at all; rather, it was an actual bloody _hallway_ buried deep inside the bowels of hell, hell being the cold, dark crawl space beneath the Rowena Lecture Auditorium.  
  
It appeared the subterranean path was better suited to a fallout shelter, Draco soon discovered after emerging from the narrow stairwell. His footsteps echoed loudly while fluorescent lights flickered eerily overhead, illuminating water stains in strobing bursts. He shook his head, happy to see his interest-accruing tuition funds being put to such good use. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the Hall was built beneath a fucking lake. Fancy that. Perhaps it would flood the vents and force the classroom to relocate. Or drown everyone inside, himself included. He didn’t really have a preference.  
  
Rounding the corner, he came face-to-face with two women standing near a bulletin board. Their feminine chatter cut short as he passed, the immediate silence drawing his eye. They stood less than a meter away, one examining a flyer while the other inspected him from bottom to top, smiling provocatively.  
  
He continued onward without reaction, her affronted scoff trailing him to the far end of the corridor where the room numbers continued to disappoint until the final plaque.  
  
_Lab - P_  
  
He sighed with relief, then cringed as a muffled lecture reached him from the other side. He checked his watch, mentally accosted by Blaise’s _cocksucker!_ every time he glimpsed the crystal face, and saw it was already twenty minutes past the hour.  
  
"Cocksucker," he muttered, reaching for the door as he would an electric fence. He turned the handle swiftly, intending to slither inside like a garden snake, but the hinges had other ideas, squealing louder than a jet engine mid-take-off.  
  
The room fell silent and he froze in turn, unable to see through the barrier but certain every pair of eyes was fixed in his direction.  
  
 _Ballsack._  
  
Sweat beaded across his nape and he decided it was far easier to drop the course, withdraw from school, and move to South America than open the door the rest of the way.  
  
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” a disembodied voice spoke. “Continue inside or we’re liable to think a poltergeist is in our midst.”  
  
Draco briefly closed his eyes before pushing the door, its rusty screech more piercing than a pickaxe to the skull. He winced, entering quickly in the hopes an anvil would crush him dead just past the threshold. Alas, the universe made no effort to smile upon him today, taking far greater pleasure in watching the cluster fuck of his life unfold.  
  
“May I help you?” The same voice asked, the rotund speaker turning away from the dry-erase board.  
  
A muffled cough drew Draco's attention sideways where it was met by a large, windowless room brimming with aged lab equipment. Twin columns of blacktop desks were divided into rows, nearly every stool occupied, and —just as he'd anticipated— a sea of curious gazes upon him.  
  
“Young man,” the Professor repeated.  
  
“I’m in this course,” Draco stated, forcing his eyes forward.  
  
“The term started a week ago.”  
  
“I know, I just transferred and had some issues with my schedule.” Fuck it. If he left now he could catch a red-eye to Argentina, he’d been meaning to tour the wineries along the coast—  
  
“This is an Advanced course,” the Professor relayed proudly, hands resting atop the arching globe of his stomach. “You need to take a specialized exam to gain admittance.”  
  
“Yes, I took it. The Registrar’s Office should have my paperwork––”  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
Draco heard the sizzle and snap of his leather soles melting into the floor, a true physics anomaly given the room’s Arctic chill.  
  
_Thud!_  
  
Something heavy and flat hit the floor at his back. He spun in time to see a girl lean down and scramble for her fallen textbook. He exhaled in relief before glancing higher and seizing totally.  
  
Theodore Nott stared back at him through shadowed, emotionless eyes, a corporeal spectre summoned to haunt his every waking moment.  
  
Draco backed away automatically and collided with a 3-D rendering of the Periodic Table. 118 wooden blocks crashed against the floor and scattered in every direction.  
  
“Shite!” he burst, cheeks red hot as the class erupted with laughter and movement. He leaned down to retrieve the block nearest his shoe, pulse hammering towards a massive coronary.  
  
“Tell me about the element in your hand,” the Professor instructed, pinning him with an assessing look. Draco straightened, attempting to process the bizarre command in the wake of his humiliation. He turned the block over, unsurprised to find a large F staring back at him.  
  
“Fluorine,” he said vacantly. “The most electronegative of all the elements.” An upward glance found the Professor’s expression changed, intrigue teaming in his eyes.  
  
“Meaning?” The man prompted.  
  
Draco squeezed the block, palm indented by its rigid corners. “Its pull is irresistible. Everything is drawn to it, even the noble gases notorious for never sharing their electrons.”  
  
The Professor tilted his head. “What did you say your name was?”  
  
“Draco Black,” he delivered in a hollow tone, returning the block to its base.  
  
The Professor's face brightened considerably. “Ah, of course! Mr. Black, I’d nearly forgotten you were joining us.” He began herding his newest student towards the desks. “You can recover the lost elements after class, now find a seat so we may continue.”  
  
Draco nodded, shuffling back. “Thank you, Professor Slughorn,” he bid before making a beeline for the furthest corner of the lab from Theo. There may be no escaping the Ghost of Christmas Past, but he wouldn’t be forced to stare at the back of his ghoulish head for three months either.  
  
Unfortunately, this particular half of the room was also furthest from the cold air vents, making it prime real estate among his peers. He clenched his teeth, unable to find a single open seat.  
  
_Son of a––_  
  
Wait. There. One unclaimed stool left. He darted across the row, blocking out the surrounding whispers and stares until arriving at his destination.  
  
The metal groaned beneath his weight, yet another facet of his life poised on the brink of collapse, while the remaining onlookers lost interest, heads turning forward as the Professor resumed writing on the board.  
  
Except for one.  
  
Draco reached into his bag, pointedly ignoring the weight of her stare. But the dark magnetism proved too great, forcing his attention sideways beyond his control.  
  
Gazing upon his tablemate now, Draco wondered how he’d overlooked her in the first place. While her face was symmetrical enough to catch his eye in any light, the frenzied jungle of her hair could be seen from the space station. Then there was her indignant glare to contend with, blazing hotter than a thermite reaction, alerting him to explosive materials ahead.  
  
He couldn’t fathom what he’d done to offend her so greatly in the last five minutes. Well, beyond _existing_ , that is _—_ which he was equally pissed about so she could get in fucking line _—_ but then, quite suddenly, it clicked.  
  
She recognized him. An obvious and unsurprising outcome given the tabloid’s obsession with his modeling portfolio. They loved nothing more than pairing his face with the most cocked-up headline they could fit on a cover page.  
  
He was a fool to think a fresh start was possible, least of all here in the UK. Argentina was looking better by the second, but fantasies of shagging a buxom flight attendant in the airplane lavatory did little to help him now. So, he squared his shoulders and went all in, calling her hostile glare and raising it a scowl.  
  
A flicker of surprise gleamed in her eyes and he weighed the odds of her exposing his identity to the class without trying to blackmail him first. The result would be the same, of course, once she inevitably discovered the barren desert of his bank account. But there were other, more creative ways of extracting payment from an individual. Especially a _desperate_ individual. And if Dear Old Dad had taught him one thing during his champagne and caviar upbringing, it was that the entrepreneurial spirit could be boundlessly cruel.  
  
Despite the burgeoning awkwardness she refused to look away first. Never one to balk from a challenge, Draco offered his most handsome grin and a friendly icebreaker to kick things off.  
  
“Sorry, was this seat reserved for the family of polecats nesting on your head?” he inquired brightly.  
  
In his mind. Because he was raised with _manners_ , fuck you very much.  
  
Even so, she seemed to receive the message loud and clear, facing forward with arms crossed and jaw clenched.   
  
He studied her profile a moment longer, convinced she’d never smiled a day in her life, and vowed to never speak a single word to the uptight shrew for as long as he lived.  
  
“As I was saying,” Slughorn addressed the room with a jovial grin. “The person seated beside you is now your partner for the remainder of the class period.”  
  
Draco rubbed his throbbing temples and examined the edge of the desk, pondering how many whacks it would take to spill his brains across its shiny surface.

. . .

  
“You’re adding too much distilled water,” the banshee wailed, and it was the most he’d heard her utter since the start of their lab.  
  
He replaced the cap and set the bottle aside. "I added 90 milliliters."  
  
“The instructions only call for 60,” she argued, making him long for the irritable silence they’d once shared.  
  
“How would you know? You haven't looked at the book since we started.”  
  
“I have it memorized.”  
  
He fought the urge to roll his eyes, certain she’d catch the motion behind his goggles and punish him for it. “It’s better to add more water and simmer at a low heat,” he explained with forced patience. “We’ll get more crystals that way.”  
  
“Have you made this compound before?” she asked pointedly.  
  
“Not exactly––”  
  
“Then I hardly think you’re qualified to modify the approved text.”  
  
She reached for the mixture with destruction burning in her gaze. Moving the beaker would disrupt the formation process so he caught her wrist instead, their rubber gloves groaning loudly before she snatched her hand away.  
  
“I’ve made lead salts before,” he challenged, wishing he’d never gotten out of bed that morning. “I know how recrystallisation works.”  
  
“Then I suppose you don’t need this class.”  
  
She was standing so close he could see the stray hairs trapped beneath the rim of her goggles. He examined her as he would a slide beneath a microscope, perplexed on how such a tight arse could accommodate such a large stick.  
  
The truth of the matter was simple; he’d never once encountered a woman who wasn’t at least partially disarmed by his immense wealth and good looks. He may have lost the former _––a temporary setback––_ but knew with shameless certainty he was in the physical prime of his life. Even the court official who’d served him the subpoena had scrawled her number on the back of a pub napkin.  
  
And yet here he was, elbowed roughly aside by a vengeful Fury who was immune to his God-given charms. His head wasn't crammed so far up his arse as to think her a lesbian for a simple lack of interest… but still, he had to ask, was she this contrary with everyone, or did she truly know who he was? And even if the latter proved true, what stake did she have in the case? Could she be connected to one of the victims? The possibilities made his head spin.  
  
He settled into vertigo and assessed her further, the focus of his glare lured to her backside by a primitive call only he could hear. His tension mounted at the distinctive outline of curved hips and lean thighs, the cut of her jeans just tight enough to darken his gaze.  
  
She glanced over her shoulder suddenly, as though sensing the heat of his stare, and had the gall to huff in annoyance when he pretended to check his mobile. He scrolled through apps on autopilot, avoiding unread messages and pondering what atrocious crime he’d committed in a past life to reap such endless punishment now.  
  
He only dared lift his gaze after he was certain the man-eating gorgon faced away, but his reprieve was short-lived when another piercing gaze turned him to stone.  
  
Theo watched him from the first row, shadows carving trenches across his face until it resembled the skull dwelling beneath. Draco breathed in slowly, desperate to look away but knowing he hadn't the right. So he waited, each second more grueling than the last until his brooding companion broke the connection and returned to his beaker.  
  
Draco deflated, the sharp hiss of air drawing his partner's unwanted notice. She scrutinized him, another impudent remark sizzling on the tip of her tongue, but his anemic pallor evidently registered because she softened her stance and looked away without a word, a temporary stay of execution he deeply resented.  
  
“We can only submit one compound for grading,” he reminded her tartly, eager to provoke her wrath and restore balance to the universe.  
  
“Then we’ll be graded separately.”  
  
The response was far too rational for his liking. “Suit yourself,” he clipped, stepping forward to brace the edge of the desk. The equations plastering the board were a poor distraction from his sour mood, as was the warm brush of her arm when she reached for an empty beaker, but true to form, his Past was more than happy to claim the spotlight.  
  
What the sodding _hell_ was Theo doing here? And why the living _fuck_ hadn’t Blaise told him?  
  
His dam of memories trembled, threatening an epic explosion that would consume everything in its path. The foundation held but couldn’t prevent a kaleidoscope of misery from blooming through his chest, set to the haunting melody of his mother’s desperate sobs––  
  
_“Oof!”_ he exhaled, struck by a powerful derriere as she bent in half to retrieve her bag. He stumbled sideways, freed of the albatross and not the least bit grateful, but when his glare cut sideways a full moon stared back. He swayed, spellbound in its blue glow until she straightened with her phone in hand, opening the timer widget and muttering something that sounded less like _sorry_ and more like _in my sodding way._  
  
Smashing a beaker over his head was quickly becoming the most attractive prospect of his day, so he settled back to observe the magical healing properties of her arse until the class period ended or god smote him dead. Unfortunately, the relationship turned symbiotic within minutes; the longer he stared the more fucked he became.  
  
Foul-tempered witch that she was, her firm behind was the most magnificent sight he'd encountered since arriving in this godforsaken shantytown. Well, after Otter Girl's one-woman traveling circus, of course.  
  
But until he met the masked exhibitionist in person _––_ and he _would_ be meeting her– _–_ he was forced to admit his Chemistry partner produced nearly as satisfying spank bank material in cheap denim as her centerfold counterparts in patent leather. She might have even tied for first if it wasn’t for the oversized sweater cocooning her upper body like a parachute. But underneath all that excess fabric her breasts were pert and plump, formed like swollen teardrops that would over spill his hand. Or so he imagined.  
  
His fist tightened as he ran through complex equations in his mind, always eager to apply his Ivy League education to real-life problem-solving.  
  
If the density of a titty was equal to total mass over volume multiplied by the square root of thigh—  
  
Fuck it. He needed a calculator. Even then, the _real_ question was the size and coloring of her nipples. Were they dark and hard like cherry candies or pale and ruched like velvet petals? The moth-chewed trash bag prevented even the faintest outline from taking form and the mystery was enough to drive a man to insanity.  
  
There was nothing else for it; further research was needed. He’d have to roll up his sleeves and––  
  
“If you paid the textbook _half_ the attention you’re giving my arse you might’ve gotten the mixture right.”  
  
He glanced up, drowning in flames at her droll remark. She continued facing away, stirring the contents of her beaker with a steady hand.  
  
"I didn't notice your arse until afterward," he admitted, seeing no reason to insult her further by denying the obvious. "If you'd bent over sooner, I'd probably have grabbed the sodium azide by mistake and blown us all to bits."  
  
Her laughter bubbled forth unexpectedly, rich and shockingly pleasant. Heat slipped down his chest and abdomen, melting through his pelvis and licking down his cock. He bit back a sigh before sending a silent warning to his troublesome crotch.  
  
_Behave. If you avoid causing me any trouble, I’ll let you roam around the flat tonight._  
  
But the prospect of freedom only excited his prick more. Not that he could blame the randy bugger. It had been four days since he’d piped a cake to _Otter Girl’s Greatest Hits_ , or so he’d fondly named the desktop folder cataloguing her various campus exploits. She’d certainly compiled an impressive array of performance art before her tour dates were abruptly cancelled.  
  
Hard-pressed to choose a single clip to enjoy on his deathbed, Draco’s current favourite was the Raging River Edition captured behind the gymnasium stands; or, twenty-six minutes of her poised on all fours with the camera angled beneath her body _just right_ , allowing her big, bouncing breasts to fill the screen in panoramic view while her thighs framed the shot on quivering stilts.  
  
Her hand got down to business off-screen until the wet, slurping suction of her juice box echoed off the high ceiling and massive scoreboard in a private symphony just for him. As per tradition, her best bits were left to the imagination, rosy corks and sopping clamshell better hidden than the Treasure of Lima. But this particular video was _extra_ special… for precisely 24 minutes and 17 seconds in, his mischievous otter had seized like a trap and wailed like a banshee, her red, puckering mouth forming a perfect _O_ while her pussy clenched harder than a lobster-cracker.  
  
She’d arched her back and lifted her sex like a cat in heat, desperate for a phantom lover to capture her hips and mount her deep, overfilling her velvet snuffbox until seed dripped down her thighs and pooled around her knees like candle wax.

Then, at exactly 24 minutes and 23 seconds, the real magic had begun. The heavens parted wide and golden light beamed down, angelic harps creating the soundtrack to her rutting monologue before she grunted low and squirted like a _very_ good girl.  
  
His breathing had hitched, eyes losing focus and wrist cramping painfully when the narrow but mighty stream sprayed across the floor and splashed against the lens. The sudden, noisy burst had startled her, the clear puddle spreading as she'd scrambled back on her bum, nervous and panting. The waterworks were an impressive sign-off, but they were _nothing_ compared to what happened to him.  
  
When the lightning first struck, he’d been convinced he was having a stroke. The tingling began in his big toes, which consequently became the only appendages he could move after every muscle atrophied at once. The sparkling light chased up his calves and swirled behind his knees, crawling between his thighs and nestling deep inside his balls until they’d glowed brighter than binary stars.  
  
His head had fallen back, jaw locked in a wide-open scream that only mimes could hear as every ounce of blood rushed to his cock. Biology had seized the wheel completely then, severing his mind’s connection to his body and drawing his nutsack tighter than a bag of marbles. His prostate spasmed and semen rocketed up his shaft, urethra swelling to accommodate the heavy load while his prick turned into a fire extinguisher, jerking wildly as cum sprayed from the engorged tip in thick, foamy ribbons.  
  
His thighs and arse and abs clenched and released again and again and again until his stomach was frosted over and globs of pearly white collected between his splayed toes. It had been enough to knock-up the entire eastern seaboard and _still,_ he’d continued to blow.  
  
Never before had he come so powerfully, lost control so completely. It’d been a miracle he hadn’t pissed himself. Not that he would have cared. Not one fucking bit. Nothing had mattered but nursing every single drop from his puckering, spurting hole.  
  
His throat had bobbed reflexively, opening and closing in desperate pursuit of air, but the soul-shattering euphoria had choked him completely while heightening every sensation ten-fold, the rhythmic contractions of his cock and balls radiating to every finger and toe.  
  
Blue and purple veins had throbbed along his trunk until it resembled another forearm, his swollen glans so hypersensitive he’d nearly drop-kicked the waste can when his thumbnail scratched along the tender ridge. Even after his seed cooled atop his fevered skin and his limbs hung limp, his cock had continued standing at alert, twitching to its own steady pulse, gradually lowering with every beat.  
  
Several minutes had passed before his esteemed General bowed its head in surrender, hot and sensitive against his inner thigh. Draco had plucked a wadded t-shirt from the floor by his toes and mopped up his abdomen with slow, lazy swipes, erasing the milky moats pooled between his muscles before slumping back in exhaustion.  
  
That was about the time his brain had opted for a hard reboot, pulling the plug without warning. He came back online sixteen-hours later with blanket indentations across his cheek and jizz puddles on his pillow-top.  
  
Back in the present hellscape of his life, Draco scrubbed a hand over his face and cursed the merry jaunt down Memory Lane. His bald bishop was at full attention now, hungering for the next fix. His vexing Otter had unleashed something wild and savage that couldn’t be coaxed or caged, and he wasn’t keen on pondering what that meant for his future… or hers.  
  
“I need the burner,” a voice announced beside his ear.  
  
He jolted, then fell perfectly motionless as she squeezed between him and the desk without further ado. The unexpected reminder of his full-body orgasm had his wires crossed, annoyance and arousal overlapping when her heat pressed along his front.  
  
He exhaled against the side of her neck and she drew forward instinctively, the movement awakening the rest of his mind like a sledgehammer to glass. He backed away so quickly he nearly wiped-out over the stool, catching himself against the table while a nearby pair looked on curiously.

His partner remained frozen for another agonizing beat before resuming her task without a word, graciously pardoning his stupidity a second time. He berated himself without remorse, vowing to keep his distance at all cost.  
  
The next several minutes consisted of her heating the subpar mixture over an open flame while he flipped through the text for something to occupy his hands. The steady murmur of conversation and tinkling glass from surrounding workstations filled the void until her low-spoken oath broke the pact between them.  
  
“Shite.”  
  
He flipped another page while she held her beaker to the light, knowing without an upward glance her precipitate had dissolved too fast.  
  
“Problem?” he inquired innocently.  
  
“No problem at all.” She reached for the distilled water, curving her body to block the motion from view. The corner of his lips pulled higher.  
  
“It’s too late now, the temperature is––”  
  
“I can handle it, thank you.”  
  
If that was her _thank you,_ he couldn’t wait to hear her _fuck off and die_. He chuckled to himself, basking in the warm glow of her homicidal rage until she set the beaker aside and groaned deeply.  
  
His expression seized, eyes sparking with madness before darting sideways, studying her mess of curls and atrocious sweater until the powerful wave broke.  
  
She paused mid-pour, static crackling as she met his gaze above the spout. “What?” she hissed, burying any surviving déjà-vu deep beneath his subconscious.  
  
His countenance returned to its resting scowl and a fresh insult loaded at the ready, but he recalled her prior clemency and decided to level his debt instead. “There’s no shame in admitting defeat. Let’s just use my mixture.”  
  
“I’m _not_ defeated.”  
  
He sighed. Her determination was admirable, if only talking to her wasn’t like trying to shite out a toy action figure after an all-night bender.  
  
He closed his book and returned to his beaker, holding it aloft to inspect the golden clusters along the base. “Right on target,” he grinned, relishing the sound of measuring cups clattering against the sink. A sideways glance revealed her piss-colored concoction. God this was entertaining. “It looks like you’ve boiled maggots, well done.”  
  
She turned up her nose but made no effort to refute his claim. “It doesn't make sense. I did exactly what the instructions said.”  
  
"Instructions are a jumping-off point."  
  
“Not in chemistry.”  
  
He shrugged and set his masterpiece aside. “Not all ingredients are created equal. Same with equipment, the instructions only apply to what the author was using at the time.”  
  
She rolled her head along her shoulders and moaned in frustration, the purring vibration starting at the hollow of her throat and spiraling its way up.  
  
He lifted his gaze slowly, watching her gather the avalanche of tresses in both hands before twirling them atop her head with impressive skill. Paired against the glossy black of her elbow-length gloves, a provocative trading card came to life before his eyes.  
  
The hem of her sweater lifted with the motion; a narrow strip of waist revealed. Cold air drifted through the parting and incited gooseflesh in its wake, triggering a sharp, breathy gasp that dipped her stomach and mocked his self-control. His teeth sawed back and forth as she lowered her arms and reached for her book, curls cascading in every direction like an underwater mermaid.  
  
“I’m sending a complaint to the publisher.”  
  
_And_ they were back. “Bloody hell.”  
  
“There isn’t time to make another batch, I’ll have to take the low mark.”  
  
“We’ll submit mine,” he said with finality.  
  
“I don’t feel comfortable taking credit for something I had no hand in creating.”  
  
He broke the seal of his goggles to rub between his eyes. “Are you always this unbearable?”  
  
“No,” she replied flatly, looking through the front pages for the publisher’s home address and blood type. “I’m usually much worse.”  
  
He couldn’t help but smirk, wishing he could simply hate her outright. “Seriously… _Granger_ , was it? Don’t take the poor mark out of sheer stubbornness.”  
  
“It’s called integrity.”  
  
Alright, hating her outright was perfectly manageable. But since throttling the nutty squirrel wasn’t an option, he grabbed her cup of cat piss and turned for the sink. “There’s no way I’ll make it through the whole semester…”  
  
“What are you doing?” she shrieked, dropping her book and leaping forward.  
  
“The sight of this is turning my stomach––”  
  
“Stop! You have no right to pour that out!”  
  
They were causing a wee spectacle if the two dozen stares from every corner were any indicator. "Why are you making this so bloody difficult?" he growled, grappling for the beaker.  
  
She bared her teeth, the feral expression igniting heat in his stomach. “Why are _you_ being so controlling?”  
  
“Controlling?” he roared, flushing at the outburst. “Fine! Submit the damn thing!”  
  
He released the glass and it flipped in her hands, the entire contents spilling down her front.  
  
The classroom gasped like a live studio audience while she huffed in shock, the few crystals she was able to produce crumbling down the lumpy fabric in a sparkling display. She glanced at the empty beaker and then to his face, more scandalized than if he’d dumped a bucket of pig’s blood over her head.  
  
“That… wasn’t my fault,” he muttered, too shocked to offer any sort of apology. Not that he would have.  
  
“Oh my!” Slughorn shuffled to their station with a look of concern. “Better hurry to the washroom, dear, we don’t want lead iodide lingering on your skin.”  
  
She tugged at her sweater, examining the wet stain from navel to throat. “Is it on my neck?” she asked, hostility forgotten in the wake of her panic.  
  
She surged towards Draco, pulling down her collar and tipping back her head before bumping into the wall of his chest. Golden flecks sparkled across her throat like quartz over sand, the shimmering mirage making his mouth run dry.  
  
“Is it?” she repeated, stray curls grazing his chin as she bounced anxiously.  
  
His lips parted but no sound emerged, stifled by the collective gaze of their classmates. A gavel pounded in his mind and he was transported back to the witness stand, a barrister yelling in his face while the jury looked on with disdain––  
  
She made a strangled sound that revived his sanity but not his vocal cords. “Forget it!” she yelled, ripping off her goggles and reaching for her bag. “Excuse me, Professor.”  
  
Slughorn stepped clear of her path as she jogged up the row and leapt over scattered blocks, wrenching the squealing door wide before flying into the hall.  
  
Draco blinked at her quick departure, wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing. His fantasies were running bizarrely rampant these days…  
  
But as he met Theo’s gaze for the third and final time that afternoon, he realized it didn’t matter. Hallucination or daydream, this was the life he was stuck with… and it was time to make do.  
  
“Well, that was certainly an event!” Slughorn announced boisterously, the rest of their surroundings coming into focus. “Ah, is that your Golden Rain, Mr. Black?”  
  
Draco nodded, slightly dazed and mostly numb as the Professor raised the shimmering brew between them. “Yes,” he murmured. “Mine and Ms. Granger’s.”  
  
“Magnificent!” Slughorn declared, cartoon grin magnified behind the curvature of the glass. “I can see the two of you are going to form _quite_ the partnership this semester.”  
  
Draco peeled off his goggles and set them beside her forgotten textbook, its cover bedazzled with golden droplets, and made one last promise to whatever Universal Force was responsible for pulling the trap-door levers in his life.  
  
_I’m never working with that crazy bint again._


	3. Perv Alarm

Draco adjusted his grip on the dry corner of the textbook, amber droplets marking his path like a trail of breadcrumbs. He supposed that made him the Hansel of this underground labyrinth, an apropos likeness given he was 100% lost and hungrier than a kid at fat camp.  
  
Adding to his frustration was the fact Gretel was to blame for his current predicament, leaving her stupid shite all over the woods before scampering down a rabbit hole to snort Adderall with the seven dwarves. Or however the Dr. Seuss tale went. His grandfather had deemed The Cat in the Hat a commie bastard and set fire to the whole collection, then poured a shot of _Laphroaig_ down his grandson’s throat to quiet his tears.  
  
Two decades later and the smell of peat still made Draco dry heave, but when he rounded the corner his stomach knotted for an entirely different reason; faced with another sinister stretch of hallway identical to its predecessors.  
  
For fuck’s sake, was he in _actual_ Hell?  
  
_Well then. I’m guaranteed to cross paths with her again._  
  
He stalled at the intersection between the twin routes, glancing high and low for signs of frizzy-haired life. Or better yet, flyers to the nearest Neurotics Anonymous meeting. He’d bet his last quid she was there now, plucking out her eyelashes and measuring the distance between chairs. What was he even doing here? The entire day needed to be stuffed inside a deep dark crypt, right alongside his memories of pissing himself at Pansy’s clown-infested birthday bash and his mum discovering a stiffer-than-plywood _Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue_ at the bottom of his sock drawer.  
  
Ready to cut his losses and run, his gaze dropped to the cursed Chemistry book. A familiar pain prodded at his ribs, easily credited to Theo’s unwelcome cameo in his life. It wasn’t like there was cause for guilt where his lab partner was concerned; he didn’t even know the chit. And even if he _had_ been so inclined to harbor even the tiniest flicker of remorse, he had no capacity to feel it.  
  
Simply put, she was out of fucking luck, along with £50 for a new coursebook because there was absolutely _no_ sodding way he was returning to that classroom.  
  
Intent on abandoning his mission, he felt the knife slip deeper as the court-appointed psychologist read his diagnosis off the projector in his mind.  
  
_“… life long history of self-absorbed behavior and chronic disregard for the welfare of others supports the Commonwealth’s claim the Defendant knowingly and willfully conspired…”_  
  
Enough.  
  
He rubbed a hand across his aching jaw, more exhausted than after he’d blown a geyser across his wall. Honestly, if his conscience _refused_ to shut the fuck up, the least it could do was berate him in a vulgar Australian accent.  
  
“Alright, Granger,” he muttered, trying to spark his remaining two brain cells together like wet flint. “Where the fuck are you hiding?”  
  
She couldn't have gotten far. He'd departed just minutes after her Telenovela farewell, the class buzzing like hornets long after the curtain had dropped. With the lead actress MIA, their stares and whispers had found a new target, closing in from all sides until his sanity burst from the pressure.  
  
Fleeing the premises was an old stand-by, but he couldn’t fathom _why_ he’d snatched her useless textbook on the way out. Alas, the impulse had struck and here he stood, about to die in a life-sized maze while trying to perform his one good deed of the year.  
  
_Idiot. Lab rats with human ears growing out of their arses can find their way out of these things…_  
  
He trudged onward, sunny disposition repaid by a glowing red exit sign above the stairwell ahead. Its electrical hum beckoned him forward like a siren call, the beautiful melody shattered by a muffled flush.  
  
He rocked to a halt as pipes squealed behind the wall, then followed the sloshing clang when water rushed to refill the tank. He found the bathrooms at the end of the corridor nestled behind an alcove. Thank Christ. He’d been starting to think Slughorn laid cable beneath his desk between classes.  
  
He eyed the door marked _L_ and decided it stood for _LSD_ when the barrier swung open and a rave emerged. He squinted against the blinding glare, a neon yellow jacket with glitter fringe pulsing before his retinas. The young woman imitating Big Bird at Woodstock was either deeply troubled or obscenely brilliant, more than likely some combination of the two with a whole lot of spliffs thrown in. His suspicions were confirmed when she started humming Jingle Bells and smiled sweetly.  
  
"Happy Mabon," she bid, twirling her cotton candy blue plait around her wrist before strolling past. He blinked at the cryptic greeting ––assuming that's what it even was–– and watched her enter the stairwell like a caroling flare gun. Spots were still dancing before his vision when another anomaly caught his eye, though, upon further reflection, the broken hinges seemed commonplace among the forgotten mineshaft.  
  
The bathroom door had caught two-thirds of the way closed, a privacy wall blocking the interior except for a lonely sink and neighboring hand dryer. There was a flicker of movement, a flash of color amid a gray, drab world, and then a familiar face materialized in the mirror like a genie from a bottle.  
  
His expression oscillated between relief and irritation, pissed she’d made him travel to the ends of the earth and back just to do _her_ a fucking favor––  
  
He shook his head, discarding his emotions altogether. He’d tracked the harpy to her nest, now he could leave the stupid book and continue on with his highly demanding schedule. The burrito in his freezer wasn’t going to defrost itself. And if he caught up to the Girl in the Technicolor Shroom Coat he might find some decent hydro; watching his life go to the dogs would be a whole lot funnier if the dogs could talk…  
  
But when he leaned down to prop the book against the frame he caught sight of Granger’s clumsy acrobatics and smirked, her failed attempts at scrubbing the stain from her sweater doing more for his mood than any chronic ever could. The struggle proved far too entertaining to abandon so he crossed his arms and leaned into the wall instead, deciding his dinner would be just as frostbitten an hour from now.  
  
In the heart of the restroom, the Wicked Witch with the Chest wiped furiously at her knockers, paper towels disintegrating before the toxic spill was remedied. He chewed the inside of his cheek as she hunched over the basin to angle the fabric beneath the running stream, water going everywhere but her shirt. Her face and jeans were soaked through before she gave up the battle with a viper’s hiss, leaving him to tremble with pent amusement, certain she’d disembowel him at the first opportunity. But her attention remained undivided when she turned off the faucet and paced towards the stalls, lost behind the privacy shield.  
  
He bit back a sigh of disappointment _… fun while it lasted…_ and rose from the wall, meeting his distorted reflection in the book jacket while her footsteps returned to the sink. His eyes drifted sideways, expecting more of the same, and nearly tumbled from their sockets just to lie at her heels. She stood before the mirror in an unadorned bra and damp jeans, submerging her potato sack called a shirt with quick, purposeful movements.  
  
Every muscle in his body throbbed before clenching tight, triggered by some biological imperative his mind couldn’t fathom. He unlocked his jaw and exhaled slowly, motionless as a wolf watching an elk frolic in the stream. And by frolic, he meant ripping the plastic cover off the soap dispenser with Hulk-like strength before tossing it at the garbage with a snarl.  
  
_“Stupidsonnovabitch.”_  
  
Draco grinned, the most entertained he'd ever been with his pants on as he watched her collect a pink glob of soap in her palms. She lathered them together before setting to work with the same concentration she'd exhibited in class, curls bouncing to and fro as she wrung the sopping fabric, blocking her reflection from sight. His sorrow was short-lived, her backside hardly a limited view.  
  
She raised the sweater to the light and water cascaded down her forearms, raining onto her hips until the hourglass of her body glistened, an uncanny homage to _Undine Rising from the Fountain_ , his favorite piece of artwork from any museum he’d ever been dragged to. He’d barely stood above his mum’s knee when he’d first laid eyes on the sculpture; now he recalled every detail as though he’d never looked away.  
  
The statue came to life, turning for the rusty hand dryer and punching the button, spreading the fabric beneath the blast of heat and awarding him an unhampered view of her side. The roaring motor intensified the throbbing in his thighs, his gaze fixed to her profile as though her magnificent breasts weren’t straining against their holsters only twenty centimeters below.  
  
Concentration molded her features until her hair was captured in a powerful cyclone, the mass of curls enshrouding her face and neck in a gleaming blanket. She batted her vision clear, fishing tangles from her mouth and releasing an impressive string of expletives. His admiration spilled over when she faced the doorway with headlights on full beam, tits bouncing like swollen cantaloupes as she loosened the hair from her neck and returned to the mirror.  
  
She braced the porcelain and leaned in close, tipping back her head to examine the worsening rash, flecks of gold catching the light. He swayed with vertigo when she traced her delicate collarbone, the scene overlaying an existing image on his memory card…  
  
He shook his head like a wet dog, flinging the obscene notion to the depths of his mind. Which certainly wasn’t far.  
  
“Shite,” she hissed, collecting water in her hands and splashing it across her inflamed skin.  
  
The floor gave way beneath his feet when wet fingertips glided over the rolling hills of her breasts, droplets pooling in the deep valley, saturating the thin lining. The magical orbs glowed brighter than crystal balls, inviting a rubbing hand and controlling the fate of a man’s soul.  
  
The dryer shut off abruptly and she groaned, the throaty, frustrated sound making his cock double in size even as his brain shriveled in denial. Then she was reaching towards the dryer with one hand gripping the sink and a leg extended back, stretching the line of her body into a perfect arabesque before punching the button a second time.  
  
He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger as the motor sputtered to life, but when his gaze lifted she was still housed within a media player, a time status bar ticking away at her feet while a mute button blinked enticingly beside her mouth.  
  
Losing his sodding mind was par for the course; if anything, he was surprised it had lasted him this long; but he never expected to _hear_ his sanity cracking like a dry branch, the hollow _snap!_ echoing down his spine when she tipped vertical and her left breast popped out to greet them, an inflated beach ball bobbing to the surface.  
  
Its pert, rosy peak pebbled instantly –– _hard as quartz, I knew it_ –– but it was the stamp above her mouth-watering nipple that doused him in kerosene.  
  
The faint, unmistakable discoloration of a birthmark.  
  
_Skitch_.  
  
The match was struck but he made no attempt to flee, welcoming the flames if only to put an end to this madness once and for all.  
  
Because it couldn’t be. It just… He was imagining things, sick with loneliness and plagued by desire. The lighting was shite, encouraging his mind to paint details where there were none. The neon jacket had fucked with his eyesight, his lube was laced with inhalants, sleep deprivation and stress, glowing beakers and expired burritos and furry masks and… and…  
  
“Fuck me,” he breathed, gripping the wall for balance and revealing his presence.  
  
She gasped before performing a graceless pirouette, facing the door with her arms crossed protectively over front. He braced himself for hysterics and rage, for the mean right-hook he knew he deserved, but received only her piercing, steady gaze in response.  
  
Their eyes held for a short eternity, measured only by the heat and electricity spiraling through the air until the dryer clicked off, its metallic cough fading to unnatural silence. He inhaled slowly, knowing any sudden movement would shatter the spell, and splayed a large hand across the door, carefully pushing it wider.  
  
A muscle in her jaw ticked and her face darkened in challenge. He was certain she planned on stabbing him in the neck with the jagged lid of the soap-dispenser but he stepped forward anyway, eager to push the limits, never learning his lesson––  
  
Voices echoed in the distance, a class letting out for the afternoon, the interruption plucking him clear of the colossal fuck-up he’d been keen on making.  
  
He pushed off the wall and bound for the stairs before she could trigger the Perv Alarm, or whatever top-secret sonar device women used to alert each other to arseholes jacking it in the vicinity. The metal push-bar clicked loudly beneath his touch, pounding steps deafening as he took the stairs two at a time, desperate to outrun the collapsing floor at his heels. His knuckles turned white against the stowaway book, clinging to the spine as though his final threads of sanity were woven into the binding.  
  
His flimsy new world might be held together by hair gel and duct-tape but it was _his_ , goddammit. No one else would gain the power to destroy it. Not again.

His momentum continued to build until he levitated to street-level like a vengeful god, flames stoked by three simple truths. His chemistry partner was the most unbearable minge he’d ever been forced to endure; she couldn’t _possibly_ be the mystery girl half the school was rubbing off to; and he’d caulk his shower to thoughts of her tonight solely out of spite.

Afterward, he’d collect enough evidence to show beyond all reasonable doubt the two women terrorizing his life were completely separate demon spawn. Then he’d drop the lab and change his major and do whatever the fuck it took to escape the burning torches in her gaze.  
  
But if The Impossible proved true, and it turned out the Universe _wasn’t_ done batting him between its massive paws like a hungry cat, he’d remain a perfect gentleman about the whole affair…  
  
And offer Granger a five-minute head start before coming after her.


	4. Free Trial

Draco cracked his knuckles one by one, fingers popping louder than bubble wrap before returning to the keyboard in a blur of motion, fueled by malignant obsession and half a stale burrito. His eyes flickered across the screen, pouring through each frame like a homicide detective over evidence, determined to crack the case before the killer struck again.  
  
The Hogwarts Clit Thrasher was on the loose and it was up to him to stop her. No matter the toll, no matter the sacrifice, there was law and order to maintain and it was Draco’s job to see it through. When he wasn’t standing trial for indictable offenses.  
  
Chugging the last of his Red Bull, he crushed the can and tossed it overhead, binning it in one shot before returning to where it all began…  
  
The library. Fortunately, he’d jerked his chicken to her pilot episode enough times to have memorized the timestamps.  
  
Fast-forwarding to the desired thumbnail, his matchbox studio grew impossibly small as she writhed and moaned, rolling her little pearl around the slick inside its clamshell. Spots filled his vision, clustering tight until a new scene formed–– _his Chemistry partner staring up at him like a startled meerkat, pulling down her collar and baring her throat._  
  
_“Is it on my neck?”_  
  
His Adam’s apple bobbed, warm with her breath as she leaned in close and––  
  
The entire scene dissolved with Otter’s keening wail, the masked vandal coming apart at precisely sixteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds. His thighs clenched when her moan became a growl, accompanied by the memory of Granger wrenching the soap dispenser in half and chucking it across the room like an unhinged bint.  
  
He tried to shake away the intruding image but she wouldn’t be dismissed so easily, staring back in challenge until he slammed the door in her snarling face.  
  
_They’re not the same woman. You’re just losing your mind. Because you’re stupid._  
  
He fast-forwarded in pursuit of validation, resuming play when the costumed vigilante had her shirt halfway unbuttoned, sticky fingers leaving glistening tracks beneath her collarbone. The clip summoned Granger’s reflection in the bathroom mirror, water droplets shimmering across her chest as she tended to her fevered skin.  
  
The birthmarks pulsed in both images, but when he tried to recall their exact size and shape they transformed into hearts and clovers and hand grenades, making a painstaking effort to drive him to madness. He paused the video and enlarged the frame, but the image was too pixelated to make a determination, serving only to remind him of Granger's plump breast overspilling its cup.  
  
He rubbed his eyes, exiting the video and opening the next.  
  
Otter bent over the camera with a look of determination, furiously badgering the witness between her legs. Try as he might to clear his mind, he couldn’t escape the composite sketch of his Chemistry partner scrubbing her sweater, droplets splashing in every direction as she lifted the fabric overhead and poured water down her arms and chest and thighs, skin cast in bronze and encased behind glass. The overflow spread rapidly through the grout, rushing outward like grasping hands, fingers clawing desperately towards him––  
  
He pulled from the memory with a jolt, teetering between eroticism and unease. But both sides of the coin were rendered moot when Otter put her marine-fairing namesake to the test and released the floodgates from between her legs, the messy spray making his cock rise faster than a heat-seeking missile.  
  
Focused as he was, the image distorted again, her mask folding in on itself until it was Granger scrambling away from her spilled juices, a flash of panic in her eyes. His hand tensed before clicking rewind, pausing on her dazed expression as she leaned into the wall and struggled for breath. Her reaction was easy to mistake for lust when his hand was wrapped around his cock, but in the sober light of day, he recognized it for what it truly was. Fear. The very same that gripped him in the dead of night.  
  
He stared at her stagnate, pixelated face until it was supplanted by his reflection on the screen, sober with the reminder she was more than just a wet dream figurehead for fourteen-year-old boys everywhere. Granger or not, a real person dwelled beneath the cartoon mask and lifting the disguise meant banishing the fantasy along with it. Was he really prepared to let this go?  
  
_“We must always move forward, Draco, that’s how we stay alive.”_  
  
The unwelcomed reminder slipped between his defenses, sharp as a bent nail.  
  
_“Like a shark?”_ a child asked, the wonder and innocence in his voice making Draco’s stomach turn. A heavy hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing in praise.  
  
_“Very good, son. Just like a shark.”_  
  
Draco shrugged off the phantom hold and returned to the screen, resolve darkening his visage. He would find her. Because he needed to. And because everything else had already been taken.  
  
He'd shut his mouth and endured his beating, bore the shame and embraced the guilt. His home was gone and his name was buried, nothing left but a moment's respite at the bottom of a bottle. But this–– this speck of light in the vast and empty cosmos collapsing all around them–– _this_ would be his and his alone.  
  
So he navigated to the ridiculously crowded website with clenched teeth, surrendering his ego for the final piece of the Otter-shaped puzzle. He’d held off joining for as long as possible, citing hassle and expense as his primary concerns. But it didn’t take much inward reflection to identify his true fear, ruining the taste with too large a mouthful.  
  
His entire life was built upon overindulgence. Left to his own devices, he’d be sick of her within a month. But maybe that was preferable, the key to finally exercising this infatuation from his bloodstream…  
  
Colorful banners bled down the page, a JOIN FOR FREE button pulsing like a neon sign. He shook his head and clicked, already dreading the worst.  
  
_Free my ballsack._

. . .

  
Three captchas and an email confirmation later, Draco was the newest and most disgruntled member of _Cam Clubhouse_.  
  
The root of his aggravation stemmed from having to add a credit card to activate his “free trial,” reminding him of the fact all his cards were so over-the-limit they served him better use as ice scrapers. He’d only gone along with the charade in the hopes someone might actually steal his identity. Fuck knew he couldn’t give the useless thing away.  
  
Logged in and past the welcome screens, he navigated the site by memory alone, wading through and tits, arse, and dick until arriving at the tags list. The selection was immense, hundreds of categories and a dizzying array of sub-bullets driving him to the search bar instead. He typed in her username and found her profile easily, the quintessential schoolgirl photo far more sinister with his newfound suspicion lurking between them.  
  
He set his jaw and inspected her page with care, noticing a public stats box on the left-hand side. The majority of fields were blank, her profile creation date the most revealing detail. She'd joined the site only two months prior, right before the semester began. Her archived feed was sparse, comprising barely one live show a week. But the length of each was impressive, the shortest session a whopping ninety minutes long.  
  
What the _fuck_ did she do for ninety sodding minutes? There was no way she was shucking her oyster that whole time. Curiosity nettled his skin, only one cure for it. He found the video with the second-highest view count and most promising title to date.  
  
_Strip Trivia_  
  
He double-clicked with enthusiasm, the opening scene bringing a smirk to his face. She fussed with the camera set-up, adjusting the angle two millimeters right and then three to the left, eyes narrowed in concentration. The ritual was relaxing, her ridiculous mask and highly flammable wig a comforting sight.  
  
Finally content with her framing, she backed away from the lens and revealed her outfit, an oversized t-shirt and suction-sealed leggings. He eased back, struggling to process this newest anomaly. It was like seeing a cartoon character in a change of clothes, so out of place his hands curled against the impulse to strip her bare.  
  
She lowered to a cushion on the floor, the rest of the room concealed by a hanging bedsheet. Bloody hell, talk about minimal effort. Though it didn't seem to have any effect on her audience's zeal, the chatbox bursting with greetings and praise.  
  
“Good evening, everyone,” she uttered cordially, a schoolmarm welcoming the class.  
  
His heart kicked painfully, overwhelmed to hear her voice at long last, struggling to prioritize the sound over the words themselves. The audio quality was subpar at best, littered with crackling pops. Even so, she sounded _similar_ to Granger but not quite identical… thank fucking Christ.  
  
“Hello Knight, BuzzLightyear, Hentai Master…” she continued reading the names down the roster, over a dozen by the time she arrived at the last. “How’s everyone doing tonight?”  
  
_Dark Knight: Excellent. How was your day, beautiful?_  
  
Draco read the comment through a narrow gaze, wondering why a golden crown appeared next to his username alone.  
  
“My day was great, Knight, thanks for asking,” she replied sweetly.  
  
Draco ground his teeth and cranked up the volume, a mechanical whir humming through the speakers, distorting her voice even further as she shot the shite with a group of horny strangers.  
  
Uninspired as their questions were, he absorbed every boring anecdote in stride, for the more she prattled on, the more convinced he became she couldn’t _possibly_ be the frizzy-haired nightmare he’d met this afternoon. Granger had barely cared to _look_ at him through the duration of their lab, little less make small talk. And while he wasn't a paying customer, there was no way someone so unpleasant could feign this level of interest for so many people at once.  
  
By comparison, Otter was masterful in her persuasion, memorizing little details about every member of her harem to keep them tightly ensnared. She asked about their jobs, schooling, and hobbies, so attentive in her focus she almost had Draco convinced. The truth bubbled over when she laughed at a knock-knock joke several minutes later, the punchline culminating in a cartoon dick zipping around the chatbox like a rocket. The underlying exhaustion in her voice was impossible to mask, turning it high and grating and _nothing_ like the illustrious sound that poured from Granger’s lips when he’d confessed to ogling her hindquarters for the better part of an hour.  
  
Otter put on an impressive show to be certain, her rising coin balance reflecting her audience’s adoration. Still, it was like watching an awkward blind date unfold at the table beside him, minus the benefit of slipping her his number when her date skipped out to blow-up the toilet.  
  
Eager to escape his unwitting role of voyeur, he sped through the next twenty minutes of mind-numbing small talk until arriving at _Round 1_ , or so the notecard she presented to the camera announced. A quick inspection of the chat revealed the rules, the highest tipper awarded the honor of choosing the question.  
  
_Pecker King: Who was the only British PM ever assassinated?_  
  
Her grin was magnificent, eyes glimmering from the shadows behind her mask. “Thanks for the softball, Peck.” She propped back on her elbows, Twin Peaks standing proud and majestic beneath her shirt. “Spencer Perceval, shot inside the House of Commons in 1812.”  
  
The chatbox exploded with activity, her smug repose making even Draco laugh.  
  
_Erectile_Projectile: holy shit_  
_Jack_my_magic_beanstalk: beauty and brains?_  
_NorwayOut: We got a dangerous one…_  
_Dark Knight: She’ll be the next PM_  
_Dick Tracey: I’d vote for her._  
  
“I’m starting to think you boys are easily impressed,” she mused, pushing back her cuticles with a pleased smirk.  
  
_HerpesFreeSince83: give her a sports question, she wont know it_  
_Wankas_Willy: Good idea_  
_NorwayOut: Okay, I got one…_  
_*NorwayOut tipped 20 coins*_  
  
Her grin quickly faded. “I don’t appreciate the conspiring, but go ahead, Norway.”  
  
_NorwayOut:_ _Who scored both goals in the final when Manchester United lifted Ferguson’s first European trophy in 1991?_  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered, dropping back her head to groan at the ceiling. Her reaction sent a bolt of heat straight through his shaft… which was alarming, given how much it reminded him of the jackal who’d growled at him from behind a beaker.  
  
_IWashedMyBalls4This: ha! she doesn’t know it!_  
_bangedurmom92: Take off ur top_  
_BuzzLightyear: Finally! Titties!_  
  
Draco cringed at the chat window –– _barbarians_ –– before returning his attention to the main event unfolding on the floor. His cock lifted in tandem with her shirt, adopting its own throbbing beat when her black bra was revealed, filled to the brim with––  
  
_Titties_.  
  
“I hope you lot are enjoying yourselves,” she said through the fabric, tugging it overhead. “Because that was the first and _only_ sports question you’re allowed to ask me.”  
  
_n2feet: wat?_  
_Erectile_Projectile: No fair!_  
_Hentai Master: 1 more plz_  
  
“Not a chance. From now on, _I_ get to pick the category.” She tossed the wadded garment aside, her blue-ribbon show ponies swaying with the motion.  
  
A cartoon piggy bank in the bottom corner of the screen danced with incoming coins, a metallic jingle sounding with every deposit. Draco shared in the sentiment, wishing the show was still live so he could make a charitable donation of his own.  
  
Her birthmark was barely visible in the dim setting, her piss poor light source illuminating her from behind. Not that it mattered much anymore since the longer he watched, the further she slipped away.  
  
Regardless of her identity, she belonged no more to him than any of the other hapless fools watching her from behind their screens. Strangers logging in just as often, interacting far more intimately, until she cared enough to memorize details about their lives and interests. The perfect girlfriend, dating all of them at once, leaving Draco to skulk at her heels just to jizz in her shadow.  
  
“Alright, who’s next?” she prompted, scattering the storm cloud with her sunny enthusiasm. Money poured in as she crawled closer to the screen, slowly, seductively, breasts swaying like heavy pendulums.  
  
* _Horny Cereal Killer tipped 30 coins*_  
  
“Give me your best shot, Cereal. Let’s go with geography.” She lifted a pointer finger at the camera, as prim as one could be with their nipples pointing due north. “ _UK_ geography, so I have a chance, please.”  
  
_assman87: pleas your obvioussly a genius_  
_Horny Cereal Killer: which train station is boudica supposedly buried under?_  
  
She dropped her head with a throaty, irritated sound that warmed his balls like holiday chestnuts. “You just _had_ to ask about London...” she muttered at the floor, auburn wig curtaining her face until she gathered it to one side.  
  
Draco inhaled slowly, fixated on her long, slender throat until he could picture it wrought with shimmering gold leaf. Anticipation swelled as she tapped her foot incessantly, eyes drifting in thought.  
  
_Dark Knight: Want a hint?_  
_Captain Butt Smasher M.D.: No cheating! this is serious shit ppl_  
  
Her gaze narrowed. “I don’t _need_ any help," she imparted stubbornly, and all at once the mask fell away and her voice transformed, projected in HD surround sound through the movie theatre in his mind. He ground the heels of his palms against his eyes and decided to make a tequila run _before_ gouging them out.  
  
“Victoria,” she guessed, sounding far more confident than her body language implied.  
  
"King's Cross," he groaned, lowering his hands as the chatbox surged with triumph.  
  
Sixty seconds later she was bare-legged on the pillow and 300 coins richer, her piggy bank squealing with delight as coins _tink-tink-tink-tink-tink’ed_ inside. Curious as to what other fun and games she had in store, he fast-forwarded to the end of the video and noted her donation total before signing off. A thousand coins.  
  
“Holy shite,” he whispered, watching her blow a kiss to the camera. Fuck kisses, he’d blow soap bubbles out of his dick for that kind of cash in under an hour.  
  
“Thanks for playing with me, everyone. See you next time.” She tapped a button and the recording ended. Draco sank back in his chair, staring into the void with mounting perplexity.  
  
A thousand coins – _–nearly the same in pounds––_ just by pinning a sheet to the wall and stripping down to her skivvies?  
  
He returned to her content library and selected her top-viewed video, recorded just this past weekend.  
  
_Otter and Cat Slumber Party_  
  
“We could learn a thing or two from the animals,” he recounted dryly, certain Blaise would have a field day exploiting this latest bout of mania.  
  
The video loaded and her fingertips filled the screen, compulsively adjusting her clearance sale camera until the position was _just_ right. This time she wore an emerald green wig befitting a Sailor Neptune cosplay contest, higher quality than its predecessors but still not fitting her established persona.  
  
She backed away from the camera to unveil her underwear and camisole… and the friend awaiting her on the bed. The blonde and similarly adorned, though her wavy tresses appeared natural, at least in the sense they were permanently attached to her scalp, just as the sheer lace eye covering did little to conceal her identity. Factoring in the pointy-eared headband, he presumed this was the aforementioned _Cat_.  
  
Otter crawled onto the mattress beside her feline counterpart and Draco's entire body throbbed with anticipation. The blonde skimmed her glittery nails across Otter’s bare thigh and his cock twitched, alive with the phantom caress.  
  
If this were any other evening or any other feed his hand would already be wrist-deep in his briefs. But tonight was about _research_ , dammit, and if Nancy Drew could unravel a town-wide mystery in a hundred pages or less without getting finger-blasted by the Hardy Boys, he could certainly make it through one night without whipping his dick out. Arms crossed for safekeeping, he sank into the torture seat, determined to make it to the final credits without rolling his dice.  
  
Given the inspiration for this nature doc, he could only imagine what he was in for. He wasn't exactly sure what happened at _normal_ sleepovers, aside from face masks and French kissing, maybe some light bondage between pedicures, just run-of-the-mill teenage girl stuff. So, when their evening began with a speed game of Truth or Dare and spiralled into Cat fitting the entire remote control down her throat, he’d been thoroughly entertained. When they stretched their limbs with a game of Twister and scrambled across the tarp like newborn fawns, he’d felt mildly amused. And when they took turns lapping chocolate sauce off each other's necks, bellies and thighs he’d felt an overwhelming craving for a Cadbury Creme Egg.  
  
Alas, his cock made it through nearly the _entire_ video with nary a peep, by far the most impressive feat of the night…  
  
And then they got to the pillow fight.  
  
He didn’t bat an eye at first, their forced _oomph’s!_ and lilting laughter ruining any chance of a BAFTA. But then something changed, starting the moment Cat lost her grip on the corner of the cushion, smacking Otter _slightly_ harder than intended and knocking her mask askew. He gripped the edge of the desk and leaned in; breath held tight as he inspected the blurry image for the final proof he needed…  
  
She recovered her disguise in record time, straightening her muzzle with a pointed glare that only encouraged her friend to snort with laughter. And then he saw it, the flash of heat in her eyes that promised great and terrible revenge. Her companion noticed it, too, her laughter dying abruptly as the pillow whipped her across the face with enough force to catapult her backward, furry headband flying across the room as she tumbled behind the footboard in a splay of limbs.  
  
Otter dropped her lumpy weapon and scurried to the edge of the mattress, offering a helping hand and words of apology, only to be yanked to the floor and ensnared between supple thighs.  
  
Cat rolled atop her struggling adversary and captured her wrists, pinning them above her head with a languid purr. Otter’s chest rose and fell in labored bursts, cheeks ruddy and lips parted as the sound of rattling coins echoed through the speakers, their forgotten audience begging for a big finale. Cat seemed more than happy to oblige, interlacing their fingers and pulsing her thighs before leaning down _slowly_ , content to play with her meal before devouring it.  
  
Draco leaned forward, nose nearly pressing the screen and cock leaking all over his shorts when, suddenly, Otter stilled her struggles, their gazes locked and mouths aligned, a cloud of steam rising between them as they tilted their heads and closed the distance–– Cat ducked her head at the last possible second, blowing a loud raspberry against her opponent’s throat that sent them both into hysterical convulsions.  
  
Draco fell back with a groan, the Royal Scepter in his pants proof of just how malleable he was to a bit of pandering. The chatbox was far more vocal in its displeasure, though that didn't stop the tips from rolling in as viewers begged for a rematch.  
  
He rubbed the back of his neck and lowered the volume on their laughter, disappointment softened by the loud, indelicate sound of it. Finally, something real. They laid on the floor breathless and spent, their amusement contagious. He smirked, recognizing the deep familiarity and suspecting they were friends outside of the cam world.  
  
He checked the final count before they bid adieu, blanching at the figure. 5,000 coins. In under two hours, without nudity, penetration, or leaving the comfort of their bedroom. Fucking. Hell.  
  
His gaze flickered to the main screen as Otter rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled for the laptop in an entirely new light. With this kind of funding, she was more than capable of affording tuition, housing, and any other expense a student might incur, like a tax-deductible sex swing, all for the price of a few non-explicit live chats a month. It was insane. And unfair. And–– and––  
  
_Bloody brilliant._  
  
Fueled by madness and adrenaline, he tore open the drawer and scrambled for a pen before snatching up his notebook and flipping to a clean sheet, scribbling furiously across the top. Glancing up, he found Otter’s hooded gaze awaiting him, her profile image bestowing the same message as earlier.  
  
_I dare you._  
  
With a deep breath, he returned to the site home page, a new plan taking root. Luckily, the first step remained the same; and better yet, he finally knew its solution.  
  
You caught an otter by setting bait in the trap.

. . .

  
He tapped the pen cap against his lower bicuspid, eyes glued to the screen. Like so many prior moments in his life, he had no fucking clue how he’d arrived at this one. And as he watched the twelfth and final Oreo disappear inside the cavernous void between the stranger’s legs, he found he really didn’t care. Time was much better spent contemplating life’s hard-hitting questions, such as, how did one discover they could _fit_ a dozen cream-filled cookies up their twat? And most pressingly, how in the world-wide _fuck_ did she plan on getting them out?  
  
Three hours into his research and he could say with confidence this was the fourth most interesting channel he’d stumbled across. His dick had gone limp well over an hour ago, his brain requiring every available ounce of blood to process some of the videos in his path. He’d strayed from the more popular tags for reconnaissance, curious what niche markets were ripe for the plucking. But his mission had gone a bit off the rails with the fetish listings; he had no forthcoming plans to siphon members from the bottomless kangaroo pocket fanbase.  
  
That said, he’d never stoop to judging others for their kinks, not after firing his laser beam to clips and images he wouldn’t admit to upon pain of death. As far as he was concerned, consenting adults could blow their wads over whatever the hell they wanted, so long as no innocent bystanders were sprayed in the process. If _CondimentQueen85_ didn’t mind scrubbing ketchup and relish from her ceiling for the next three days, he certainly had no cause for dissent.  
  
And then there were the artists, some of who were so impressive it was sacrilege to wax the hood alongside their performances… like pissing in Tate Modern or humping outside the Abbey. He'd watched an intricate Parisian cityscape come to life across a canvas of naked models, a violinist deliver a full-blown concert in the buff and a ballerina defy the laws of physics with a variation in her living room.  
  
And while these incredible feats gathered a respectable audience, they required hard-earned skill and passion that couldn’t be forged or stumbled through. The same principles applied to the S&M and Furry communities, each bearing its own infrastructure and rule books that couldn’t be memorized overnight. Any pretenders trying to skip to the top of their leaderboards would be met with swift and crushing opposition.  
  
Which left the mainstream tags the most lucrative for fast and easy money. But the competition was _fierce_ , requiring full-time commitment to break the coveted Top 100 ranking. Fortunately, fame and notoriety were at the bottom of Draco’s Christmas list. All he needed was a steady income that frothing milk and delivering parcels for a few hours per week could never amass. Namely, because he didn’t know how to work a coffee maker or drive a car ––or create a C.V. or apply for a job–– _what exactly_ was _income tax?_  
  
Nevermind. It was much too complicated, better to stick with what he knew. And if there was one thing Draco Malfoy knew with the precision of an atomic clock, it was how to fuck. Seconded closely by persuading people to do just about anything he wanted. Which was lucky, because a quick glance at the men’s profile pages didn’t inspire much confidence.  
  
Though substantially fewer in number, they pulled in far less profit than their female counterparts, the most bankable members churning out multiple videos a week just to break even with a desk job. It wasn’t _bad_ , per se; any money was better than none… but _more_ money was always better than less. And Draco never settled for less.  
  
_“Very good, son. Just like a shark.”_  
  
He shook the cobwebs loose and navigated back to Otter's page, hoping to find solace in its familiarity. But her cunning gaze triggered an avalanche of resentment and emotion impossible to sort. Not only did she have the audacity to haunt his every wet dream until his sheets ran the risk of cracking in half, but she'd also made it so the only way to have her was by sharing her with everyone else.  
  
And on the subject of her shiny new platform, why the hell was it so different from her previous work? What was the point of paddling the pink canoe all over campus just to discuss dead politicians on her feed? Why even start a channel if not to rake in _obscene_ amounts of cash? Was it just a hobby or would she transition to full-time? Did the site provide metrics or did she not give two frozen fuckpops––  
  
_Ping!_  
  
A glowing pop-up caused him to atrophy.  
  
_*Otter Girl is LIVE*_  
  
He stared at the final word until its letters rearranged into a much more apt description.  
  
A big green dot glowed beside her thumbnail, reflecting in his gaze and beckoning his cursor. He clicked 'JOIN' and felt his heart drop, a new message appearing.  


LIVE SESSION LOADING…

  
He squared his shoulders and widened his chest, glancing around his filthy flat as though she’d be able to see inside it.  
  
The feed finally started, every corner filled by her mask as she adjusted the plastic toy camera, lips firmly set beneath the grinning muzzle. The curve of her chin led to a cream-colored cowl neck, unseasonably warm and wonderfully tight.  
  
Satisfied with her handiwork, she paced backward to reveal short-shorts and a pale pink wig. Another swing and a miss, as the American who worked at his parent's Country Club used to say. When he wasn't busy shagging her in the steam room. Simply put, his masked coquette wasn’t a _rainbow wig_ type of gal. She was the _I’m too busy memorizing every footnote inside my textbook while spraying my fluids around campus to worry about a wig_ _today_ type of gal.  
  
“Good evening, everyone,” she offered with a tired, albeit genuine grin. “Hi Sammy, hey Dark Knight, welcome back Mighty D. How is everyone tonight?”  
  
_Dark Knight: How was your day, beautiful?_  
  
Draco glared at the username adorned with a golden crown. His research had taught him the symbol identified the most prolific patron in the room, aka, her generous Knight in dickwad armor.  
  
“It was good,” she replied with forced cheer, stifling a yawn.  
  
_Erectile_Projectile: Doesn’t sound that way._  
_NorwayOut: Lies!_  
_Call_Me_Big_Poppa: O no I can tell something’s wrong, wat happened?_  
  
“Bloody hell,” Draco muttered. It sounded like they were in group therapy, every patient clamoring to bang the hot counselor. Morons. Did they really think she cared about them? That she’d deluded herself into thinking they cared for her? They didn’t even know her name, more interested in seeing her tits than hearing about her enchanted upbringing.  
  
“Alright alright,” she laughed. “It was a long day, but I’m feeling _much_ better now that I’m here with you guys.”  
  
He folded his arms; certain she’d rather be curled up tight with her annotated copy of _The Art of War_.  
  
_Invented_the_internet: Why are you in a sweater?_  
_Wankas_Willy: Pls take it off_  
_*Wankas_Willy tipped 10 coins*_  
  
“Sorry, Wanka, my arms are cold tonight. Here, I’ll take off my shorts instead.” Rising swiftly, Draco enjoyed the sight of her wriggling out of the fabric with exaggerated finesse.  
  
_Invented_the_internet: only your arms get cold?_  
_n2feet: Girl Logic™_  
_bangedurmom92: Who cares? as long as clothes are coming OFF_  
  
He eyed her cowl neck, imagining the nasty rash beneath. The inexplicable weight returned and, suddenly, he was poised above his keyboard without leave from his brain, typing rapidly and pressing _Enter_ before common sense could register.  
  
_Dragon King: Did you meet anyone new today?_  
  
His breathing turned shallow as her eyes flickered across the screen, reading his words.  
  
“Hi Dragon.” Her grin widened. “Welcome to my room.”  
  
She looked into the camera and he felt her eyes upon him, the moment impossibly real and crushingly intimate. There were no other names in the chatbox, no fast-forward or rewind.  
  
“Did I meet anyone new today?” she pondered aloud, tilting her head. “Hm, that’s an interesting question…” He inhaled slowly, hearing her foot resume its distracted tapping. “No, I don’t–– oh, wait!” She straightened. “I did meet someone.” Their gazes locked. “He was a real dick.”  
  
The simple designation made him erupt with laughter, betrayal and jealousy loosening its hold on his throat. He slid the keyboard closer and continued typing.  
  
_Dragon King: You’re certain there wasn’t any chemistry?_  
  
He would have happily relinquished his inheritance a second time just to own the framed shot of her reading his question, lips shaped with annoyance and suspicion. “No, _definitely_ no chemistry,” she said pointedly.  
  
He hummed in delight, pressing _Enter_ with little thought.  
  
_Dragon King: Maybe today's meeting was just a jumping-off point._  
  
He watched the screen closely, pulse thrumming when she scanned the question twice before slowly lifting her gaze. The mask blocked the nuances of her expression, but her eyes were an open book, widening imperceptibly as realization took hold. She leaned away from the computer, lips parting and a subtle flush infusing her cheeks, though the latter was the likely byproduct of mounting rage rather than embarrassment.  
  
“I don’t think so,” she uttered without inflection even as her eyes gleamed with malice. “He was much too _controlling_ for my taste.”  
  
And there she was. Finally. Victory was sweet but her bubbling wrath was a confection.  
  
_Dragon King: Or maybe you’re too uptight._  
  
He watched the tendons strain in her jaw as the chatbox went wild.  
  
_Wankas_Willy: Who is this guy?_  
_Dark Knight: Fuck off loser_  
_n2feet: douche_  
_NorwayOut: Kick him out otter!_  
_n2feet: ban his ass_  
  
She braced her hands to either side of her computer, the mask nothing but a shadow as Granger glared back at him, voice radiating through his speakers like a gavel strike. “Or _maybe_ he’s a self-entitled egotistical _prig_ who thinks the rules don't apply to him.”  
  
A thrill raced up his spine and out through his fingertips, sparking across the keyboard.  
  
_Dragon King: Sounds like someone needs to brush up on their student integrity handbook._  
  
“Oh, don’t you worry, Dragon.” Her grin was glossy and red as a poison apple. “I have it memorized.”  
  
And then the feed went black, a new message filling his screen.  


YOU ARE BLOCKED FROM VIEWING THIS CONTENT

  
His shite-eating grin reflected from bezel to bezel as he collapsed in the chair with a laugh, scrubbing both hands across his stubble and retrieving his notebook. The pages were curled and warped, drenched on both sides by the pristine ramblings of a mad genius. He traced the spiral edge with his thumb, pupils dilating with thoughts of the mission ahead.

It appeared they’d be bottling liquid gold for the second time. And once again, Draco would be leading her to top marks.


	5. SWOT Analysis

The pressure skyrocketed between her ears, reminding Hermione of the time she was running late to class and popped a hardboiled egg in the microwave. It had taken all afternoon to scrape yolk and shell from the nooks and crannies, though she imagined it would take twice as long to scrub skull and brain matter from her carpet. Her landlord was far too cheap to spring for Scotchgard.  
  
Yet every time she tried redirecting her focus it held fast and true, drawn inescapably towards the black hole eating its way through the center of her screen.  


DRAGON KING IS BLOCKED FROM YOUR CONTENT

  
Dread climbed her throat like steam through a pipe, filling her head and pouring from her lips in a white cloud as she hurried to close the alert, praying her viewers wouldn’t linger on the subject.  
  
_Dark Knight: Otter? You ok?_  
_Horny Cereal Killer: That guy was a dick babe dont listen to him_  
_n2feet: fuckin idiot_  
_h00sierdaddy: Hang on i went to the bathroom wtf did i miss?_  
_n2feet: some asshole was messing with her_  
  
“Everything is fine,” she assured them, the urgency of her words undermining their meaning. “In fact, it’s already forgotten.” Her grin spread easier than marmalade on toast, but her arms refused to budge, still bracing the floor for the next grenade. “Actually, all the excitement went straight to my bladder. I’ll be right back, keep talking amongst yourselves.”  
  
She lurched to her feet like a drunk at final call, masking the faux pas with what she’d hoped was a seductive wink but felt more like the onset of pink eye. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”  
  
Comments continued to pour inside the chatbox, new arrivals asking what happened and expressing outrage on her behalf. She’d learned before tonight her viewers were a protective lot, a flattering anomaly, though she suspected it stemmed from feeling entitled to a piece of her. Some nights it made the weight of their stares impossible to bear, no matter the thrill and relief of virtual coins filling her animated coffer.  
  
But on this particular occasion, the fear of discovery outweighed all else, so she kept her smile tacked firmly in place and rushed to the bathroom, pulse outrunning her mind. She tried perching on the edge of the tub but her limbs refused to settle, propelling her up and around like a frantic bird in flight. Closing her eyes did nothing to help, his chatbox mockings stamped behind her lids.  
  
She'd known this day would come eventually, going so far as to play through the various possibilities in her head. The worst-case scenario had always been Harry's discovery, never mind the fact he'd never once expressed anger or disappointment where she was concerned. But that same undying devotion fed fear to her now, the prospect of finally doing something to put shame in his eyes.  
  
She’d speculated how she might explain this piece of herself, if it was even feasible to merge the two worlds. Her best friend understood the importance of escape better than anyone, the necessity of starting anew. Surely he’d come to see her reasoning and accept her choices with time, tucking away her secret for safe keeping as she’d done for him on so many occasions prior.  
  
Consumed as she’d been with his potential reaction, she’d never once considered the possibility of a _stranger_ outing her… a ridiculous oversight, to say the least. She hadn’t a clue who was sitting on the other side of her feed. Fellow students, former teachers, her childhood Sunday school teacher, each glazing their screens to the sound of her voice each night. It was the risk she’d accepted, the disturbing plotline she chose to ignore every time she switched on the camera. But _this…_ this was another nightmare entirely.  
  
Someone she barely knew held her entire fucking future in his hands. What if he reported her to the school? The _authorities?_ Her live streams were relatively tame, but her campus videos could net criminal charges. She’d be expelled, fined, and put on a sex offender registry. Her entire life over before it even began.  
  
_The shadow will swallow me whole._  
  
She ripped off her mask and threw it in the sink, claustrophobic and nauseous, and met her manic gaze in the mirror. No words could encapsulate the severity of this crapshoot, but one seemed more fitting than the rest, so she screamed it as loud as she could and helpfully brought her neighbors up to speed.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  


. . .

  
The fountain trickled softly at her back, more effective than all her overpriced meditation apps combined. This outdoor oasis had long been her favorite hideaway, off the beaten path and wonderfully scenic, garnering just enough foot traffic to offer voyeuristic opportunities aplenty. Nothing was quite so fascinating as people watching, a proclivity she’d once found shameful and isolating, now the common thread binding her to a thousand faceless souls.  
  
As it stood, the magical fountain was her safe haven for the afternoon, the one place not even the Devil could find her… should the narcissistic prick go looking. Unfortunately, eluding Mother Nature was a far more challenging task, the lesson instilled when an errant breeze wove the ends of her hair into a massive bird’s nest.  
  
She growled at the disruption, battling her curls to one side while the fountain sprayed a mildew-scented mist across her face. The stone hat observed her from its center perch, water pouring in every direction as though equally confused to its purpose. She glared at the smiling brim, pondering not for the first time why the University chose a hobo’s piss bag for its famed mascot.  
  
_Ding!_  
  
She groaned anew, abandoning her efforts and reaching for her bag. Her hair took cues from the water, exploding in every direction as she retrieved her phone and read the glowing message on the screen.  
  
_**hey**_  
  
She didn’t need the benefit of contact ID to know the author of the romantic sonnet.  
  
_Ding!_  
  
The second message fell atop the first in a game of Tetris.  
  
_–fucking kidding me._  
  
_**dinnr 2nite?**_  
  
She rubbed between her brows, trying to think of a valid reason not to chuck her phone in the hobo fountain when it vibrated with an incoming call.  
  
_Cormac, you animated cock with legs–_  
  
_Oh._  
  
She tapped _Accept_ and brought it to her ear. "Hey, mum."  
  
_"Hi, baby!"_  
  
An explosion of noise followed, pots and pans coming to life to form a garage band. “What are you doing?”  
  
_“Just looking for the cord to the printer.”_  
  
“What do you mean? It’s not plugged in?”  
  
_“Not that cord, the one that connects to the box.”_  
  
Hermione closed her eyes. “You don’t need a cord for that, mum. It’s wireless.”  
  
_“But I want to print a photo.”_  
  
“Doesn’t matter, you do it wirelessly.”  
  
_“I’m not messing with the wires, sweetie, I’m looking for the cord.”_  
  
For the love of Christ. “Nevermind, I’ll come over–”  
  
_“I know you’re busy, darling, I’ll just ask Marjorie if she has a cord I can borrow.”_  
  
Hermione curdled with thoughts of the boozy neighbor, a ratchet divorcee in hot pursuit of a pub crawl wing woman. "Don't do that, I'll swing by in a few hours."  
  
_“I’d love to see you but don’t make any special trips–”_  
  
“It’s okay. I’ll bring some dinner and we'll make a night of it.” She’d already decided to lay low for the next few days, going so far as to store her webcam in the health food pantry, safely out of mind with the rest of the forgotten contents.  
  
_“Alright, sweetie, that’ll be– Oh!”_ Hermione jerked. _“Someone called here for you. Did I already tell you that?”_  
  
She sat straighter, nearly knocking her bag in the water. “Someone called your phone for me?”  
  
_“I could have sworn we talked about this, maybe I told you in a dream–”_  
  
“Mum!”  
  
_“What?”_  
  
“Who called?”  
  
_“Oh, just some man.”_  
  
More rummaging, a drawer slammed shut. Hermione gripped the phone tighter, bubbling waves ten times louder in the wake of the discovery. “Did he give his name?”  
  
_“I think so, let me check.”_ Bare feet echoed down the hall. _“Hm, the cord might be in the kitchen...”_  
  
“Did he say what he wanted?” She pressed, legs drawing towards her chest.  
  
_“Who?”_  
  
“The man that–” _Calm down._ “Nevermind. I’ll check your recent calls when I see you.”  
  
_“Alright, sweetheart. Oh, here we go, I knew I wrote it down. His name was…”_ Her mother’s laughter echoed like porch chimes. _“I must have written it with my left hand, I can’t read a word!”_  
  
Hermione dropped her forehead to her knee. “ _Why_ do you write with your left hand? You’re not ambidextrous.”  
  
_"Well, my right hand was probably busy holding the ph– oh! I found the cord!"_  
  
She lowered her gaze to the rippling pool, contemplating if it was deep enough to drown in. “Good job. I’ll connect it tonight.”  
  
_“Thank you, sweetie. And make sure to order the dressing on the side.”_  
  
“On the side of what?” Hermione asked, studying her reflection across the pale green surface.  
  
_“Anything that comes with dressing.”_  
  
“Bye, mum.” She ended the call before her soul left her body entirely, carding a hand through her hair and hissing when it caught a wind-blown snarl. “Ow! Son of a–”  
  
“Hermione?”  
  
She shrieked, nearly tipping sideways off the ledge.  
  
“Sorry!” Neville yelled, rushing closer.  
  
“It’s okay,” she panted, steadying herself before plunging into the basin. “It’s my fault for ordering that third coffee.”  
  
He smiled sheepishly, creating an awkward tower at her side. “Must’ve been a late night. I thought you had class on Thursday afternoons?”  
  
The innocent remark made her blink. “I do. Normally.” She squinted against the sunlight, swallowing down the memory of scrubbing her cabinets and floor until 6 a.m. “It was cancelled for today.”  
  
He nodded like that made perfect sense, then toed the crabgrass until perking like a dog at the sound of a leash. "Oh! I meant to tell you; I got the exchange account set-up. You can start accepting crypto pay whenever you–"  
  
“Thanks, Nev,” she urged, glancing around the sea of distracted, disinterested faces. “Do you mind if we talk about this tonight?”  
  
“Oh, right, of course.” A flush spread from his nose to his cheeks. “Sorry, I– um, yeah, call me when you're free and I’ll walk you through the login.”  
  
"You're a lifesaver," she said, hand perched like a visor. "Thank you so much for helping me."  
  
Red suffused his entire head until he resembled a matchstick with hair. “Oh, it’s not a big deal.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, or perhaps purge his breakfast all over the ground, but was denied either opportunity when a deep fissure appeared in the earth and Satan emerged from the steam cloud.  
  
“Granger!”  
  
She whipped her head around, watching the Prince of Darkness saunter across the grass like he owned the quad. Students of all ages and proclivities paused their sun-drenched frolicking to stare in his direction, more than a few gazes lingering on his ass.  
  
Hermione turned rigid with his approach while Neville edged into the side of the fountain, seeming to smell the impending storm on the atmosphere, hurricane winds gathering force between them.  
  
“Good to see you up and about,” the pillock goaded, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. “Though you really should be taking it easy so soon after your release.”  
  
In her mind, she’d already struck him dead with her photon gun and fled the scene; in reality, she scrunched up her face and glowered from the ledge. “ _What_ release?”  
  
"From the hospital." He arrived before her like a shit-eating statue, and she wondered if Michelangelo sculpted replicas of ripped dickheads exclusively. "Certainly you'd _never_ skip class voluntarily,” he posed, grinning like the star of a toothpaste commercial. “My, my, however will your reputation survive?”  
  
“Reputation?” She echoed, armed and dangerous with the brilliant cover story she’d concocted between one and four a.m.  
  
“Yes, Granger. _Rep-u-ta-tion_. That thing people compliment to your face and shite talk behind your back. Most idiots have just the one, you have a matching set.”  
  
Her venomous glare reflected across his lenses and she hoped it shriveled his cock. Neville cleared his throat, shuffling nervously. “Um, should I–?”  
  
“I’ll call you tonight,” she bid in farewell, holding the smug gaze poised from above.  
  
“Oh… okay. Well, bye.” He bounced away like an anxious tumbleweed and the air turned sweltering in his absence.  
  
“Another adoring fan?” The source of her torment presumed. “I take it unmasked conversations are on the house?”  
  
She inhaled slowly through her nose but the urge to kick him in the balls remained absolute. “I don’t know what you’re–”  
  
"Spare me," he deadpanned. "I just left a two-hour lecture on the oxidation byproducts of redox reactions in organic decomposition. So, write down whatever feeble excuse your neurosis devised at 3 a.m. and drop it in the comment box. I'll have fun reading it at the poetry slam."  
  
She crossed her arms to prevent smacking the sunglasses off his face, only to shriek for the second time that afternoon when he dumped something flat and heavy on her lap. “What the hell!” she shouted, trying to dislodge the binder without touching it. “What are you–”  
  
“Notes from today’s class. You falling behind fucks with _my_ grade. Slughorn will continue pairing us together as long as we’re top of the class.”  
  
“ _I’m_ top of the class, you just started!”  
  
“And I out-performed you on my first day.” So help her Goddess she wanted to slap the shit out of him. “However, I’m willing to share the prestige. Because I’m a _gentleman_.”  
  
“That’s not the word I’d use.”  
  
“Prestige? Hm. I suppose it does sound a bit _priggish_.”  
  
“Do you ever shut up?” she muttered, kneading her throbbing temples.  
  
“Only when I’m deep in thought.”  
  
“So, no.”  
  
“You’re finally starting to get it.” He stepped back and gestured to the main route. “Come on, we’ll head towards the station.”  
  
Despite replaying his words three times, they still sounded deranged. “I’m not going _anywhere_ with you.”  
  
“I beg to differ.” His grin returned, more blinding than the sun. “We’re going to lunch.”  
  
The weight of his binder kept her pinned and she wondered how he’d managed to stuff his entire ego inside it. “Who the hell are you?” she asked, unsure what answer she was looking for.  
  
“Your Chemistry partner,” he proclaimed. “Cordially inviting you to a friendly lunch where we can discuss the ramifications of you skirting your responsibilities as a student. Alternatively, I’m the stranger who knows the sound you make when you’re three knuckles deep in your lint trap, kindly blackmailing you into joining me wherever the fuck I want to go.”  
  
She pressed her heels together, then did it twice more in the hopes it would bring a house crashing down on his head. “I’m not going someplace alone with you.”  
  
“Agreed. I’m an avid supporter of witnesses. They’ve helped keep me out of prison on several occasions.”  
  
She bent her neck to either side, desperate to alleviate the mounting tension in her shoulders and spine. Her options were limited, but more importantly, she was eager to get this waking nightmare over with. “One hour,” she warned. “Then I scream.”  
  
His grin sparked with cruel delight. “Far be it for me to keep a lady from her audience. Don’t worry, luv, I know how _valuable_ your time is.”  
  
She rose with a narrow stare, letting his binder hit the grass and stepping over it. “You have no idea.”  
  


_. . ._

  
“Hi there, what can I get you to drink?” their waitress asked, grinning a bit too eagerly at the blonde and douchey end of the table.  
  
“Ladies first,” he said, removing his sunglasses, much to the waitress’s delight.  
  
Hermione held his amused stare, imagining the light fixture breaking loose and crushing him flat, before directing her attention sideways. “Water with lemon, please.”  
  
The waitress nodded, quickly returning her gaze across the table, disappointment palpable when he barely spared her a glance. “A chocolate milkshake, extra thick.”  
  
“Yeah, sure thing.” She edged back slowly, hope lingering. “I’ll be right back with those.”  
  
Hermione crossed her arms with a pointed glare. Her _Signature Look,_ as Ron loved to say.  
  
“What?” he prodded, hair falling sleek and perfect despite their twenty minutes trek across the city because _someone_ was too cheap to spring for a cab.  
  
“You must think you’re very clever.”  
  
“Clever?” He leaned back, unmoved by her rancor. “Not particularly. More like serendipitous.”  
  
She scoffed loudly, eager to ruffle his pristine feathers. “Is _that_ what you call extortion?”  
  
“I haven’t asked you for anything.”  
  
“But you’ve threatened to expose me.”  
  
“This is where I say something along the lines of, _I can’t expose you any more than you’ve already exposed yourself,_ but I don’t want to sound like a judgmental dick, so, let’s just settle on the knowledge I thought of the joke and chose not to say it.”  
  
Her lid blew. “Why am I sitting here?” she yelled, tossing her hands and attracting the startled gasps of neighboring diners.  
  
He glanced around the patio with a harried grin before directing his warning across the table. “Keep the straitjacket _on_ , Girl Interrupted.”  
  
“I’m leaving,” she announced, grabbing her bag from the empty seat.  
  
“You shouldn’t wear colored wigs,” he said without ceremony, the absurdity of the statement rendering her still.  
  
_“Excuse me?”_  
  
“You shouldn’t wear a wig at all,” he continued, adopting a careless sprawl. “But if you’re going to insist, which seems to be your M.O. for just about _everything,_ you should pick a natural color and stick with it.”  
  
Her molars ground so tightly they threatened to shatter. “Wow. While I appreciate the unsolicited fashion advice as much as the next–”  
  
“It has nothing to do with fashion. It’s about your brand. You’re selling the Girl Next Door in Sex Kitten accessories; it’s confusing to the viewer.”  
  
“My viewers _aren’t_ confused,” she hissed, gripping the edge of the table in the vein of flipping it. “Furthermore, I don’t even have a brand.”  
  
“Exactly.” His eyes sparkled as though he’d divulged some profound insight. She bristled at the gall, ready to breathe flame when he lifted a staying hand. “It’s not an insult or provocation. I only want to help you.”  
  
“Am I in the Twilight Zone?” she muttered, searching the overhead beams for a hidden camera.  
  
“I’ve been calling it Hell. And lucky for you, I’m trapped here as well.”  
  
“Yes, fate is smiling on me.”  
  
He leaned sideways for his bag. “The wigs are just the tip of the iceberg. Here, I created a SWOT analysis.”  
  
She blinked wordlessly when he reemerged holding a matching pair of folders, extending one across the table. “You…” She accepted the offering tentatively, opening the cover and staring at the pages within. “... are insane.”  
  
He propped an ankle on his knee and thumbed through the stack. “Not quite. The court psychologist ruled out any mental illness. Legally, I’m just an arsehole.”  
  
“Happy to hear our tax money is being put to good use.” She skimmed the cover sheet and met his eager gaze over the top. “Sorry, is this supposed to read as something _other_ than deeply disturbing?”  
  
“I was aiming for one-third enlightening.”  
  
“Then it’s a swing and a miss.”  
  
He blinked, looking properly dumbfounded for the space between heartbeats.  
  
She closed the folder with forced patience. “Look, you obviously tried to do something… _nice_ … but I think it’s best we pretend this never happened and go our separate ways. I’ll speak with Slughorn about getting a partner switch–”  
  
“You also need a better filming location, stat.”  
  
Well, she tried. Hopefully a meteor would do the job the light fixture couldn’t. “Okay, I’m just going to–”  
  
“Here we go,” the waitress announced, materializing beside their table with drinks in hand. “Are you ready to order?”  
  
Hermione reached for her bag a second time. “Actually, I need to–”  
  
"Look at the menu some more," he completed, enjoying his one-man game of ad-libs. "Do you mind giving us a few more minutes, luv?"  
  
The teenager blushed profusely, swaying towards his chair as though it contained a gravitational field. “S-Sure, no problem. Take all the time you need. I’ll just… check back in a few.”  
  
“Cheers, darling.”  
  
She giggled softly and backed into an unoccupied table, knocking its centerpiece askew.  
  
“Do you always have that effect on women?” Hermione asked bitterly, voice cast low to spare the hapless waitress further humiliation.  
  
His eyes lit across the table, carefully scanning her face before lingering on her mouth. “Nine times out of ten.”  
  
"Well," she cleared her throat, "I've never been happier to be a statistic." She rose swiftly, allowing her hair to curtain her face and hide the pink stain his scrutiny had left behind.  
  
“You earn an average of one thousand coins a video,” he relayed, reaching for his straw. “Though the take is largely dependent on a select few generous donors. If they're absent, you're lucky to get half that amount." He tore open the wrapper and slid the plastic free. "Your take-home revenue is substantially less. The website siphons 40%, right? Several creators complain but anytime they threaten to take their audience to another platform, their accounts get flagged."  
  
The mention of flags only drew her attention to all the red ones staked to his forehead. “Thanks for the water,” she said, lifting her bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll be sure to send the restraining order via Royal Mail.”  
  
He plunged his straw into the glass and licked the whipped cream from his thumb. “Statistically, your channel will reach its maximum earning potential in the next eight to twelve weeks, topping out around £5,000 a month. Then you’ll start a steady decline, earning the equivalent of a part-time job before spring. Someone who’s financially motivated would do everything in their power to turn that ship around _before_ it hits the rocks.”  
  
“I’m not financially motivated,” she asserted, making a strenuous effort not to stare at his mouth.  
  
“I had my doubts at first,” he admitted. “The campus videos threw me. Then I took a closer look at your live streams and finally realized; it’s all about money.” He propped an arm over the back of his chair, untouched by the sudden indignation gripping her. “That’s not a slight. In fact, it’s a huge relief. It means you have unlimited potential. Emotional attachment would only hold you back.”  
  
“Jesus,” she muttered, asking herself why the hell she was still standing here.  
  
“If you apply my plan, you’ll more than double your gross revenue in the first month and triple it in the second.”  
  
“What plan?” she scathed, adopting her Signature Look.  
  
He gestured to the abandoned folder. “Check the final page.”  
  
“I don’t think so.” The sneer was meant to signal her grand exit until he grabbed the maraschino by the stem and swirled it through the fluffy topping, rendering her legs numb.  
  
“Guess I had it wrong,” he sighed, eyes on his dessert. “Phoning it in is obviously your M.O. Have fun shaving your legs while bidding for wigs on eBay.” Then he was dipping the cherry into his mouth and sucking it clean, cheekbones hollowing out before releasing the fruit with a wet _pop._  
  
She jolted with the sound, blood rushing to her lower extremities as he turned his wry grin upon her. She didn’t understand the cause for his amusement until the weight of the folder imprinted on her hand, bringing to mind the realization she’d somehow retrieved the item in her fuck-fog.  
  
_What kind of witchcraft…?_  
  
She thought about ripping the pages to confetti-sized shreds and dumping them over his head while the wait staff sang Happy Birthday. Or better yet, setting fire to the whole lot and tossing it in his lap… while the wait staff sang Happy Birthday. The song really drove the message home.  
  
So naturally, she found herself flipping to the final page and skimming its report, curiosity surmounting everything but death. “This…” Her anger frayed at the edges, interwoven with bafflement. “You’re a _Chemistry_ major?”  
  
He gathered a dollop of cream on his straw and stuffed it in his pouty gob. “I’m as shocked as you are.”  
  
“I don’t know how to process this,” she muttered, flipping through the pages despite her misgivings.  
  
“That’s why you need a consultant who can process it for you.”  
  
“Consultant?” she parroted, eyes darting up.  
  
"Semantics. Obviously, I'll finesse the title for the business cards."  
  
“What the hell do you know about camming?” she challenged, tossing the folder on the table.  
  
“Admittedly, not a lot,” he shrugged, continuing to lick the sides of his straw. “Which isn’t surprising, given I joined the community sixteen hours ago. And yet, substantially more than you, which is sad, given I joined the community sixteen hours ago.”  
  
Her hands balled tight. “You’re unbelievable.”  
  
“I’ll add that testimonial to the business card.”  
  
“Just because you stopped jerking off long enough to draw a line on a graph doesn’t mean you’re an expert.”  
  
He sobered at the vehemence of her words, abandoning his frozen treat to meet her gaze intently. “I know sex and I know marketing.”  
  
“That business card is _really_ starting to fill up.”  
  
“I can make your channel extremely successful,” he persisted.  
  
“Then why don’t you start your own?”  
  
"I'd love to," he replied, no shortage of bitterness in his tone. "If it was worth even a fraction of the effort. But I'd have to work my arse off to earn a _fourth_ of the coin you rake in just by taking off your top.”  
  
“Poor you,” she chided, struggling not to react when his eyes glinted like silver coins. “So, your solution is to consult me for free?”  
  
“I never said my services were free.”  
  
“You also never named your price.”  
  
His answering grin was rife with sin. “Interested in hearing it?”  
  
“Morbidly.”  
  
She supposed it couldn’t bode well that he leaned away from the table before acquiescing, as though expecting her to leap across and bludgeon him with a starter plate.  
  
“Twenty percent.”  
  
She rocked sideways with laughter, clutching her abandoned chair for assistance. “Why don’t you jot that on a napkin and slip it in the comment box?” she recited, mopping the corners of her eyes. “I’ll need material for when I do stand-up.”  
  
“I’m willing to negotiate,” he managed to impart through gritted teeth.  
  
“You’re ridiculous.”  
  
“You already gave a testimonial, it’s too late to change it.”  
  
She spared a sweeping glance to the adjacent tables, longing for a stray fork.  
  
“If you thought my offer wasn't worth considering, you’d have stormed off by now,” he reasoned coolly. “ _After_ chucking your water in my face. I know how partial you are to extravagant exits.”  
  
Alright, she’d be willing to settle for a spoon, assuming it was large enough to shuck the mutant-sized testicles he purported to pack.  
  
“What’s your endgame, Granger?”  
  
She drew rigid as a signpost.  
  
“Long-term goals,” he continued, glass perspiring at his side. “A certain number of followers, a specific rank on the leaderboard. What are you chasing after?”  
  
A dozen perfectly reasonable answers came to her at once, each filed according to complexity and credibility. But when it came time to pick the winner her mind went quiet as a frozen lake, nothing to offer up but the naked truth lurking beneath its dark surface.  
  
“£63,500.”  
  
He arched a speculative brow. “That’s… oddly specific, but okay.”  
  
She fought to suppress a shudder, pondering which Dumb Bint Syndrome she’d inherited from her mum that made it easier to spew her troubles to some scheming _prick_ trying to rob her blind than her trusted friends and relatives. Eager to provide additional insight, her thoughts flattened and warped until they projected across her mind like macabre shadow puppets, ghastly silhouettes scattering at the flash of headlights and screeching tires. Exploding metal signaled the curtain drop, allowing her to crawl free from the wreckage in a trembling heap.  
  
Only then did she discover her Chemistry partner on the other side of the road, perched behind a patio table with a half-melted shake at its edge. A fevered blink and the restaurant took shape around them, clinking silverware and murmuring voices filling the three-dimensional void.  
  
“I see,” he muttered, scanning her face in such a solemn manner she thought perhaps he really did. “You’re not chasing after anything. Something’s chasing after you.”  
  
Her stomach twisted violently, propelling her to map out the easiest escape route–  
  
“Wait,” he urged, gripping the armrests as though battling his instinctual need to give chase. “I know how it feels,” he said, gentle and coaxing as though trying to lure a fox from its hole. “Trying to outrun your shadow is a full-time job. Let me help you.”  
  
She swayed with the words, content to leave her den before realizing the extent of her folly. "All you've proven is you passed your Intro to Business course or swiped the notes of someone who has. There's zero evidence you can follow through."  
  
“Give me a month,” he proposed, anchored to the edge of his seat. “One month to prove my worth and double your profit. If you aren’t completely satisfied, I’ll leave you alone for good. No strings, no drama, just smart, effective business.”  
  
_Tell him to sit on a gear shift._  
  
But the words refused to come. He was a thread dangling at her sleeve and she hadn't the patience to cut him loose. Her instinct was to yank, to snag the fabric all the way to the seam. Destruction was gratifying and preferable to waiting for the next string to unwind. Faced with the unmistakable desperation in his eyes, she suspected he was a yanker, too, leading to the question; which would they unravel first, the entire world, or each other?  
  
“One week.” Her words curled softly through the air before shattering over his head like a glass plate. “You get exactly seven days to prove you’re more than a smooth-talking parasite living off bullshit and hair mousse alone. And you only get _10%_ of the earnings.”  
  
He raised his chin and the obscenely luxurious coif bounced to attention, eager to preen beneath her scowl. “I assure you; this volume is completely natural. And I counter at 15.”  
  
“I hope there’s enough room left on your business card for _delusional_ ,” she advised, retaking her chair without flourish. His laughter was curt and deep, the steady vibration threatening to lift her mood considerably. She denied the impulse with a monk’s resolve, ripping open her straw for distraction. “You really joined the site last night?”  
  
“I did indeed.”  
  
She watched him ease into an insolent sprawl and reach for his shake. “And yet you figured out who I was in the first five minutes.”  
  
He took a hefty sip, conveniently filling his garbage disposal past the point of speech. She eyed him conspicuously before posing her next question. “Exactly _how_ many times did you watch my campus videos?”  
  
He inhaled sharply, taking a load of chocolate and cream down his windpipe while she stabbed her lemon with the straw.  
  
“I’m back!” The waitress announced, popping into existence like a horny fairy godmother. “Have you figured out what you want?”  
  
“I think we’re a few years of intensive therapy away from that, but we’re ready to order lunch,” Hermione replied above his excessive hacking, waiting to see if he puked up a lung or a hairball.  
  
The waitress shifted awkwardly, unsure who to direct her attention to. “Uh… okay, great.” She settled on Hermione, because she was smart.  
  
Hermione grinned, examining her menu like the Princess at a luncheon. “My business partner not only offered to pick up the tab, he _insisted_ I order the most expensive item you have. Isn’t he such a gentleman?”  
  
The waitress dodged a flying elbow as he lurched across the table, attempting to snatch the laminated plastic from her hands. “Yeah. Seems like it.”  
  
“I’ll also take a Fuji salad to-go, dressing on the side,” Hermione relayed, reading through the Specials while her dining companion flopped around like a goldfish and knocked his silverware to the floor. “Oh, and throw in a chocolate milkshake, _extra thick_.”  
  
She offered a wink and her menu, both accepted with a harried nod before the waitress aimed her sights across the table. “And for you?” she hedged.  
  
Though he no longer sounded like an engine in its death throes, he could barely manage a wheezing sputter in response.  
  
“He’ll have the exact same as me,” Hermione instructed, grabbing his untouched menu and passing it sideways. “Except go ahead and toss his salad in my bag.”  
  
“Alright, perfect.” The waitress recorded the order with a bright grin. “We’ll have that out to you shortly.”  
  
Hermione returned the expression, surveying the girl’s departure while her Marketing Consultant attempted to flay her alive with his gaze.  
  
“You _do_ know what tossing salad means?” he croaked, shoving aside his drink before it pulled a gun on him.  
  
She unwrapped her silverware with a hum. “I thought of the joke, I just chose not to say it.”  
  
He watched her smooth the napkin over her lap through narrowed, bloodshot eyes. “You’re going to make this week a living hell for me, aren't you?”  
  
Resignation was heavy in his voice, making her relish it all the more. She leaned into the table and propped her chin on her hands, smiling sweeter than antifreeze. “You’re _finally_ starting to get it.”


End file.
